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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


V 







CLORINDA 



WELLESLEY 

STORIES 

BY 

GRACE LOUISE COOK 


REVISED EDITION 
Illustrated and Enlarged 
Drawings by I. B. Hazelton, 


BOSTON, MASS. U.S.A. 
E. H. Bacon & Co. 
294 Washington Street 
1904 


m 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. . 


Clorinda 

Morning Prayers .... 

The Lake 

Depot at Wellesley 

Lake and Settees .... 

Tree Day 

College Buildings .... 
She Ventured Past Rebecca's Door 
Ice Carnival 


Frontispiece 
Facing page 33 
‘‘ ‘‘ 58 

“ 90 " 

‘‘ ‘‘ 136 

u “ 172 

“ “ 186 

“ “ 222 / 
“ “ 293 




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PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


4 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


and shoulders came quickly together in 
groups and as quickly separated to form 
other groups. Any upper class girl would 
have known they were campaigning. Be- 
hind the scurrjdng figures came the lag- 
gards in twos, or singly. And again the 
figns of the times might have been ob- 
served in the fact that Susan Marlowe and 
Lydia Fox were loitering in earnest con- 
versation. They were not more than usu- 
ally pleased each with the other; the frown 
between Susan’s dark brows and the down- 
ward droop of Lydia’s mouth were sufficient 
evidence that their animosity had not been 
entirely subdued. Sue tramped along with 
her shoulders squared and her handsome 
head turned a little away from her com- 
panion, whose face glowed with some in- 
ternal heat. Lydia’s arms were wildly 
flourishing and her red head was bobbing 
decisively. 

“Whether you hate the rest of the class 
or not,' you can’t elect Margaret Lawence 
if you try ten years. We won’t have her. 
So you may just as well vote for Tom and 
save the wrangle.” 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


5 


“That’s your way of looking at it,” re- 
turned Sue Marlowe. “Mine’s different 
There are a hundred girls in the class who 
know Margaret Lawrence better than you 
do ” 

“Yes, and hate her more!” 

Sue turned and glared; Lydia was not 
quelled. “It’s true!” she stamped her 
foot, and flourished her arms again. “Col- 
lege girls always hate a snob.” 

“You mean plebeians hate an aristocrat.” 

Lydia Fox’s eyes shot dazzlement upon 
the beholder. Her face grew white and 
red again. Neither she nor Sue, whose 
wrath had darkened her mobile face, heard 
the overtaking steps half smothered by 
snow. Margaret Lawrence’s ally felt the 
need of retaliating by an attack on the 
opposing candidate. 

“You’ve put up a heavy plebeian to run 
against her. And you give her a common 
man’s name. Tom Jefferson! That’s 
enough to defeat her.” 

“It’s going to elect her!” burst forth 
the indignant plebeian. “Mary Jefferson 


6 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


is the grandest girl in our class, or in col- 
lege! And because she’s too high bred to 
be a snob you call her a pleb. She’s no 
such thing, and her name is Mary Tomasia 
Jefferson, and she shall be Tom Jefferson 
forever, like her old great grand uncle! 
And Tom Jefferson’s going to be our 
president!” 

Lydia’s shrill voice was now clearly au- 
dible to the hurrying classmate behind. 
The words smote her, and drove the blood 
over her forehead. She walked on, alert 
for the reply. 

“Tom Jefferson’s a fat-faced politician, 
and she’s wound you round her little fin- 
ger,” came the response.” 

The girl behind turned suddenly and 
fled into the Stone Hall drive. Sue had a 
sidelong glimpse at a retreating figure. 
She looked again and flushed painfully. 
Lydia tvuned in surprise. 

“It’s Tom, and she heard you!” she ex- 
claimed fiercely. 

“My darned temper again!” growled 
Sue. “You always make me so mad I 
can’t see — you little — democrat! ” 


PEESIDENT JEFFERSON 


7 


‘‘Hurry up! They’re closing the 
doors!” cried Lydia Fox, as she broke into 
a run. 

Sue panted beside her on the chapel 
steps. 

“You know I don’t think those things 
about Mary,” she said hastily. “Can’t 
you set it right?” 

“Do it yourself.” 

“But I don’t know her. Nobody does. 
She’s all right, only I don’t want her for 
president.” 

“You’ve got to have her,” whispered 
Lydia Fox, unappeased, as they entered 
the eastern transept. 

The occupants of the freshman seats 
were impatient and abstracted diming this 
particular Tuesday morning service. The 
sophomores in the opposite transept 
watched them suspiciously, for all signs 
pointed to a freshman election this week. 
The two upper classes in the nave were 
undisturbed by these alarms, and much 
more attentive to the service. They did 
not notice the excitement among the 


8 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


freshmen, many of whom slipped through 
the east door while the upper classes were 
filing down the nave. 

Before the nine o’clock bell brought 
sudden quiet and emptiness to the great 
corridors, the freshmen were seen in all 
parts of College Hall standing in bunches 
which mysteriously disintegrated at the ap- 
proach of curious sophomores. Lydia Fox 
broke away from a group on the western 
staircase and hmried up to Mary Jefferson, 
who was tearing open a letter on her way 
from the postoffice. 

‘‘Hello, Foxie,” was her greeting. “I 
want to talk to you after Math.” 

“ Did you hear what we were saying?” 

Mary Jefferson’s fair face grew a shade 
paler. 

“Yes, because I couldn’t help it, you 
know. That’s what I want to talk about.” 

“ Come up stairs and say it now. 
There’s time before Math.” 

“ All right. I guess there is time for all 
I’ve got to say.” 

They walked on to the palms, and up- 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


9 


stairs to a sunny window seat at the third 
floor centre. Mary Jefferson’s thin lips 
uttered no word until they were seated. 
Even then she found it hard to speak. 

“I just wanted to tell you, Foxie,” she 
began with forced evenness of tone, that I 
didn’t like what you said to Sue Marlowe.” 

Lydia was taken aback. 

“ What I said ? Why Tom, you didn’t 
suppose it was me who made that nasty 
speech ” 

The blood leaped suddenly into Mary’s 
face. 

“I’m not talking about that,” she went 
on. “What I mean is that I didn’t like 
you to mention my name in connection 
with — with the elections.” 

“Well, I just guess I will mention it.” 

“No you w'on’t, not if I ask you not to. 
Of course, Foxie, it’s awfully kind of you, 
and all that, but I don’t think one girl 
ought to bring up another’s name just 
because they happen to be good friends.” 

“Well I haven’t brought up your name 
any more than anybody else has!” 


10 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Mary smiled at her companion’s impul- 
sive outburst. 

‘‘If it’s anybody else, it’s just half a 
dozen of our own crowd in the village. 
We might put up any one of those girls as 
well as me. But you see I think this way. 
There’s no sense wasting time talking 
about the girl you happen to know best. 
If we all did that there’ d be a general 
blockade. We’ve just got to join forces 
for the girl who ought to be elected.” 

“Why, Tom Jefferson, you stupid old 
girl, that’s exactly what well I sup- 

pose you’re right.” Lydia ended guard- 
edly, “of course we’ve got to unite on 
somebody ” 

There was a twinkle in her eye that gave 
Mary a new idea. 

“Look, here, Foxie, I want you to drop 
all this.” 

“Well, you can want.” 

Foxie picked up her books and started 
for Room G. Mary was close beside her. 

“If you don’t drop it Foxie, I 1 

won’t stand. There’s no chance for me. 
It’s siUy.” 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


11 


“You don’t know what you’re talking 
about.” 

“Yes I do too. And you girls will only 
make it harder for me. I’ll withdraw my 
name if it is proposed.” 

“Now, Tom, don’t be a stubborn mule.” 

“I’m not. But I know Margaret Law- 
rence is the girl. Nobody has a chance 
against her. She’s perfectly dandy, any- 
how, and she’s brainy and awfully swell. 
And the class president ought to be an all- 
round girl.” 

“That’s right!” said Lydia, as the bell 
hurried them toward the dreaded mathe- 
matics. “And Margaret Lawrence is all 
angles. I won’t have her for president 
and neither will the class.” 

Before they slipped into Room G, Mary 
caught Lydia’s arm in her strong grasp. 

“Foxie, you httle spitfire don’t you see 
how you’re stirring up feeling? It’s be- 
cause — because you talk about this that 
Sue could say — what she did say this 
morning. Nobody who has such things 
said about her is fit to be president.” 


12 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Mary’s face was white with pain. She 
turned and went silently to her place, 
Lydia following with her thoughts in a 
snarl and advanced algebra a haze in the 
back regions of her mind. 

All day Lydia’s actions were consistent 
with her stormy mood. She was so cross 
that her friends alternately scolded and 
laughed at her. 

“Hello, Reddy Fox,” cried Hilda Morgan, 
as Lydia entered a roomful of classmates 
and fudge, early in the afternoon. “Don’t 
look so glum! Yoiu* waving hair is like 
tongues of flame, and your eyes scorch the 
envious admirer.” 

Lydia silehtly fell over a heap of girls 
and cushions on the floor, and began beat- 
ing a pillow in a corner. 

“Let her alone!” said Laura Mason, the 
hostess. “That’s the only thing to do with 
Poxie when she’s in a temper.” 

“Well, if you had all heard Tom Jeffer- 
son talk to me Aw! She makes me so 

mad!” 

Foxie’s utterance broke down in rage. 
Again she was busy with the pillow. 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 13 

“Says she won’t stand if we put her up.” 

“She will, though.’’ 

“She won’t either,” said Hilda Morgan 
quickly. “If Tom says she won’t, she 
won’t.” 

“That’s what makes me so mad! You 
can’t do a thing with her. She said she’d 
withdraw her name if it came up in the 
meeting.” 

“Keep her out,” cried one. 

This idea was quickly accepted. 

“But it’s not so easy,” said Lama Mason. 
“What’s her objection anyhow?” 

“Oh, she thinks nobody wants her and 

that she hasn’t brains enough and well 

she heard a dirt mean speech that some- 
body said this morning. It was Sue Mar- 
lowe, but she didn’t mean it.” 

“Sue’s an old thunderer anyhow. She 
never means anything she says when she’s 
excited.” 

“Well, Tom thinks it’s true, so she might 
as well have meant it,” wailed Lydia. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Hilda suggested, 
“we’ll have the meeting tomorrow instead 


14 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


of Thursday, and elect her before she knows 
it.” 

There was noisy delight at this. 

“It will give us a chance to get in ahead 
of the Sophs, too. They think we’re going 
to do it on Thursday, and they’re la5dng 
plans for a blockade.” 

“But the meeting is called for Thiu's- 
day,” objected Laura. 

“That’s nothing,” said Hilda. “I’ll see 
the other girls on the committee, and we 
can pass the word around that the meeting 
is to be Wednesday afternoon because the 
Sophomores expect us Thursday.” 

“But Mary Jefferson will hear it as soon 
as anybody,” said Laura, who always wet- 
blanketed a sudden proposal. 

“The girls at her house must manage to 
stay with her this evening so nobody can 
announce it to her.” 

“Lydia will do that, and thank you for 
the privilege.” 

Lydia at that moment jumped into the 
middle of the room and madly waved her 
pillow. Then she began to laugh hysteri- 
cally. 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


15 


‘‘ Shut up, Poxie ! ” shouted Hilda. Y ou’ll 
have the entire House Government Com- 
mittee down here.” 

“1 don’t care. I’m going to do it!” 

“Do what?” 

“ Oh, I’m going to do it. Won’t she feel 
honored by my company ! Girls, Tom told 
me yesterday that she’s got to meet her 
brother in town tomorrow noon.” 

“Nothing funny about that.” 

“Well, I’ll go to Boston, too, and I’ll 
keep her there till five o’clock and then 
make her come up here ” 

“I’ll invite her to dinner,” exclaimed 
Hilda.” 

“Then it’s all fixed. And by the time I 
get her up here ” 

“She’ll be elected. Hooray for Presi- 
dent Thomas Jefferson!” 

“Not so fast. And if you don’t keep 
quiet I’ll put you all out,” remarked the 
hostess. “But what are you going to do if 
Mary doesn’t want to stay in town?” 

“I’ll fix her. And now I’ll go home and 
prepare my city costmne. You’ll spread 
the news tonight Hilda ? ” 


16 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Lydia’s voice was gleeful and the red 
curls were bobbing about her mirthful eyes 
when she vanished from their midst. 

The diversion of a luncheon in town with 
her brother brought consolation to Mary 
Jefferson’s spirit. Before she started she 
had begun to blame herself for considering 
seriously the hotrtempered words of two 
girls who were never long on amicable 
terms, although Sue’s loathsome epithet, 
“fat-faced politician,” still hurt. Her face 
was not fat and the little influence she 
possessed had been given to Sue Marlowe’s 
candidate whom she admired and envied 
for her personal power and her seeming 
indifference to the opinions of others. 
Mary Jefferson did care for the esteem of 
her comrades. She liked the girls in a 
hearty, general way, sometimes she had 
wished that they might And her attractive, 
for although she was conscious of a certain 
power over the impulses of those about her, 
she felt that her own lack of charm, of 
what she called brains, must make their 
attitude toward her an impersonal one. 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


17 


Until this Tuesday she had never heard 
her own nane proposed against that of 
Margaret Lawrence. The sudden throb of 
joy which Lydia’s impulsive admiration had 
raised ended in pain at Sue Marlowe’s 
words. She might have known that only 
Lydia would think of such a thing, and 
Lydia’s enthusiasm was only making her 
more and more misunderstood. 

It was not a subject she could speak of. 
With her brother she ignored every possi- 
bility of unpleasantness in her story of 
college work and recreation. They talked 
athletics with absorbing interest until it 
was time for him to take the three o’clock 
train for New York. Reluctantly, but 
again in her normal good-natured mood, 
Mary left him and tmned toward the shop- 
ping district to spend half an hour before 
starting for Wellesley, where she expected 
to be in time to prepare tomorrow’s mathe- 
matics before dinner. 

While she stood hesitating in the centre 
of Jordan, Marsh & Co.’s main aisle, she 
saw a clumsy, dowdy figure approaching 


18 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


her with plain intent to speak. A lank 
arm tossed aside the heavy shawl that was 
crossed on the ample bosom, and a ragged 
black mitten, through which projected a 
finger, blue with the cold, was thrust toward 
Miss Jefferson. 

“ Indade, mum, ’tis glad Oi am to see the 
loikes of yez in this howlin’ purrgathory, the 
Lord forgive me.” 

There was a twang about the voice that 
Mary thought she had heard before. 

“ Shure mum, if yez hadn’t taken yez 
afternoon out like meself Oi’d never ’av 
found yez. An’ ’tis hosies Oim afther buy- 
in’ meself. Mebbe ye can lade me to ’um.” 

“ What is it you want?” questioned Miss 
Jefferson. 

“Hosies, mum. And thim gals runnin’ 
about are all shoutin’ so loike the howly 
angels of hiven that they can’t heark to 
loikes of me.” 

“You’d better ask the floor walker,” 
suggested Miss Jefferson, nodding toward 
the man who stood with his hands behind 
him and glanced surreptitiously at the odd 
figure. 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 19 

In an instant the Irishwoman was beside 
him. 

“ Mister feller walker,” she began, ‘‘could 
yez respeckfully imforwm me where the 
hosies woiild be afther bein’ ? ” 

“Hose in the next aisle,” replied the 
promenader, unpertmbed. 

The bob of the head was unmistakable, 
and the lock of red hair that escaped from 
the confines of the dingy woolen hood as 
that same wagging head turned toward 
Mary put her last doubt at rest. 

“Foxie!” she exclaimed, grasping the 
ragged mitten, “What on earth does this 
mean?” 

“An’ shure what could ut mane, mum, 
but that it’s meself that’s gone barefoot 
trottin’ over yer owne kitchen stairs.” 

The laughter of one or two customers 
nearby brought an angry gleam into Mary’s 
eyes, as she followed the ridiculous beckon- 
ing finger round the corner. But her ap- 
preciation of Foxie’s clever disguise and 
unfaltering impersonation soon dispelled 
her uneasiness and prompted her to accept 
the joke in a joking way. 


20 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


At the counter where the Irish maid was 
displaying cheap articles of appalling size 
and color, Mary picked up a brilliant pair 
of plaid cashmere stockings. 

“I should think you would like to get 
these,” she ventured. 

“Indade, mmn, them’s handsome as Saint 
Patrick himself. How much?” 

“Eighty-nine cents,” called a passing 
saleswoman. 

“ St. Patrick forgive me, mum, but would 
ye plaze to say how O’im to buy the loikes 
iv that till ye’v paid me last week’s 
wages?” 

Two or three anxious buyers turned to 
laugh at the bold speech and the evident 
discomfiture of the young mistress. 

“That is too much to pay for stockings,” 
she answered lamely, “ but if you’ll come 
over to that bargain counter, Bridget, and 
take yom choice you may have what you 
want.” 

Bridget tossed and sniffed at the men- 
tion of bargains, but she went with alacrity 
and selected two hideous pairs of stockings 
for which the mistress heroically paid. 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


21 


Mary now realized that she could not 
get the early train to Wellesley. The 
algebra must wait till evening. And mean- 
time Bridget’s importunities led her from 
shop to shop, where she must buy all the 
ugly things the maid demanded, and laugh 
internallly till her eyes watered. Lydia 
never forgot her role. She was never 
noisy, but she was persistent, and so irre- 
sistibly droll that she could not fail to at- 
tract attention. Mary devoutly hoped they 
need not go far from Washington Street, 
but her hope was dissipated when Bridget, 
with her sham-draped arms now folded 
across numerous bundles, made an unex- 
pected dash into West Street. 

“They do soi, mum, that there’s a nate 
little candy shtore up around the corner. 
Me neice towld me the’ was iUgant dhrinks 
there on a cowld day.” 

“1 never heard of it,” lied Mary frankly. 

“Indade, ye must ’av mum, beggin’ yez 
pardon, for as Oi was sayin’, me niece saw 
yez un the little shtore a drinkin’ out of a 
choiny cup. Holler’s they do be afther 


22 WELLESLEY STORIES 

callin’ it, mum, because the prices is hoigh.” 

They were rapidly approaching Tremont 
Street. 

“Oh yes, of course I know that place. 
How would you like to have a drink, 
Bridget?” 

Mary was ready to make a virtue of 
necessity. 

“Shure, mum, ’tis bitther cowld on the 
wicked street, an’ if it’s that ye wants to go 
in to the drinkin’ place to warm yez, O’im 
not fer kapin’ yez out.” 

They entered Huyler’s soberly, rejoicing 
that the people who stared would never see 
Bridget again. She, unmoved, drank her 
hot chocolate at a gulp, and waited in won- 
dering silence while her mistress sipped hers. 
They were an odd pair, and unmistakably 
friendly. Indeed, the mistress was now in 
a gale of laughter most of the time, and 
the maid’s grimaces became momentarily 
broader and more conspicuously voluntary. 
As they hurried through the cold twilight 
to the station, the Irish waddle was never 
far behind the firm tread of the tall, broad 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


23 


shouldered young woman whose smiling 
face gleamed over her shoulder beneath 
the electric light, as she tried to catch the 
voluble brogue poured forth from behind. 

Bridget seemed unaccountably anxious 
not to lose the 4.50 train. She reminded 
her mistress that the 5.30 would make her 
late to the dinner party up at the college. 

Mary had quite forgotten her dinner en- 
gagement with Hilda Morgan, and was not 
sorry to be reminded of it, for when they 
reached Wellesley there would be little 
more than time to go racing over the hills 
in one of the many bumping crowded sleighs 
all trying to arrive first at College Hall. 
To her surprise, Lydia clambered into a 
small open sleigh beside her, and hurried 
the driver off before any less successful 
adventurers could climb into their laps. 

“Are you going up to college, too? And 
in that rig?” demanded Mary, as Lydia 
gave the order. 

For the first time Foxie’s natural voice 
answered her. 

“I just guess I’m not going to waste all 


24 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


this fun on you. Laura Mason asked me 
to dinner, and besides — ” 

“But you’ll disgrace yourself and the 
whole freshmen class.” 

“Well, then. I’ll borrow a dinner gown 
for your special glorification, if you’re 
ashamed of me.” 

Lydia flounced around in her place, and 
began gathering up the bundles that con- 
tinually feU from her arms and lap. She 
was perfectly quiet as they entered the 
grounds. Only the sleighbells chimed re- 
sponse to Mary’s infrequent sentences. 

Before they reached the last turn in the 
road, the sound of distant cheering came 
across the snow. Lydia sprang forward. 

“Hurry! Hurry up, can’t you?” she 
called to the driver, who was already gal- 
loping his horses up the hill. “Listen! 
Can you hear what they’re saying, Tom?” 

“I wonder what’s up,” returned Tom, 
without emotion. “Some sophomore noise, 
probably.” 

“No! Don’t you hear the yell? It’s our 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


25 


Before she could clearly distinguish the 
name she was excitedly hoping to hear, 
certain listeners by the windows had caught 
the tinkle of the hells. The door was flung 
open, and a flood of light and tumultuous 
sound swept out upon them as the sleigh 
stopped under the old porte cochere. A 
mad throng was surging to the doorway. 
Before they got nearer Lydia had flung 
one arm about Mary’s neck, and was madly 
flom’ishing the other in midair. 

“Don’t you hear? Don’t you hear, Tom? 
They’re calling for you ! Y ou’re president ! ’ ’ 

She began to sob hysterically, but no- 
body heard her, not even Mary Tomasia, 
for a wild, full, rhythmic chorus was chant- 
ing that which made her heart bovmd sud- 
denly and stand stUl. 

Jefferson! jbffebson! JEFFERSON! 

Jefferson! jeffeeson! JEFFERSON! 

“ Rah, rah, rah. 

Rah, rah, roo ! 

Wellesley, Wellesley, nine-teen- two! 

Jefferson! jeffeeson! JEFFERSON!” 

There was no end to it. She could not 


26 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


utter a word. Nobody wanted her to. No- 
body allowed her to speak, for while the 
persistent shouting beat upon the air, a 
mass of screaming, tumbling forms pvdled 
her from the sleigh, and bore her trivunph- 
antly upon some half-dozen proud shoulders 
into the heat and hght and noise. At sight 
of her white face poised above the throng, 
there was a mad new volume in the hoarse 
chant, and a scrambling rush of everybody 
in the great building to the centre galleries. 
From second and third floor galleries came 
the complimentary cheers of the other 
classes. And at last the seniors, with hearty 
memories of their own freshmen days, gave 
forth the class cry from above the palms. 

“ Ninety --amel ninety-mnel Wellesley!” 
they ended, with practised accord, and then 
came the added call, from cordial smiling 
faces, Jefferson! jepfeeson! JEFFER- 
SON!” 

Mary gulped, and her white face crim- 
soned for the first time. But she knew 
now what to do. 

“For ’99, girls!” she shouted, holding 
her arm above her head. “Now!” 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


27 


The arm swooped down, and the lusty, 
deafening yell such as only freshmen can 
give, was repeated furiously, with a mingled 
ending of “Jefferson!” from the outskirts, 
and “ 99 ! ” from the centre of the mass 
that made the galleries resound with laugh- 
ter and handclapping. 

Then the crowd opened and Tom Jeffer- 
son was set upon her feet, to confront the 
sophomore president advancing slowly with 
a formidable mahogany gavel, brand new 
and silver mounted, in her hand. There 
was a sudden hush while she made the for- 
mal congratulatory speech with which she 
presented the traditional gift of the sopho- 
more class, and then, while President Jeffer- 
son was making a confused response, the 
sophomores broke forth into a most un- 
maidenly yelp of pride, congratulation, and 
derision. They could not so soon forgive 
these difficult freshmen the bold trick by 
which they had evaded sophomoric schemes 
of siege and bombardment during the most 
important freshman class meeting of the 
year. 


28 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


The sophomore president melted into the 
crowd, and Mary Tomasia Jefferson, vidth 
the gavel held uncertainly in her left hand, 
was looking with humid eyes into the face 
of the black robed senior president, who 
grasped her hand, and then transferred from 
her own arm to that of the freshman presi- 
dent her burden of heavy Mermet roses. 
She spoke but a single sentence — the right 
one, and it made the new officer’s lips 
tremble so she could not reply. The junior 
president followed, with three great purple 
fleur-de-lis, forced for the occasion. Then 
her class closed round her again, those who 
were too far away to seize her hand or arm 
or shoulder, pelting her with violets and 
carnations. At last, hoarse and hungry, 
they allowed her to be borne upstairs to 
Hilda’s room, which soon filled with the priv- 
ileged bearers of flowers and furs and hat 
that the president had left behind her. 
They all tried to be very calm while Tom 
Jefferson with fingers that trembled visibly, 
was making herself ready to appear in the 
great dining room as the leader of the 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


29 


finest class in college. She felt very insig- 
nificant and at the same time proud, with a 
new pride in herself and her class. She 
walked down the long dining hall with a 
perfectly assumed cahn that made the faces 
of others than her classmates shine with 
genuine admiration. And behind, with 
Laura Mason, came Lydia Fox, transformed 
by a borrowed gown into a coquettish 
child with bobbing curls, although the eyes 
were a little teary, and the face so serious 
that not a dimple appeared. 

In the dining room there was no demon- 
stration, hut all through the evening the 
surging excitement swept college and town. 
The new president must be escorted to the 
village boarding house, which had been 
hastily filled with fiowers in honor of the 
home coming. Over the mile of moonlit 
snow the hurrying feet must keep time to 
the rhythm of song and cheer. It was 
late when President Jefferson closed the 
door upon the last freshman who said good 
night. 

like many of her classmates that night. 


30 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Mary was ready for bed before she remem- 
bered the algebra lesson unprepared. She 
threw on her dressing gown and tried to 
study, but she saw only the flushed, eager 
faces of her friends, and instead of mathe- 
matical formulae she heard her own name 
tossed frantically back and forth. 

Her full heart shook with loyal purpose, 
and then with sudden fear lest the girls had 
mistaken her. She was not like Margaret 
Lawrence. Poor Margaret! She had not 
thought of her before. She must be sorry 
and disappointed. And Margaret was so 
handsome, so clever, so confldent! Yet the 
girls had preferred her. If they had known 
how hard she had to struggle over every 
lesson for every day they would not have 
honored her. She began to wonder whether 
they had done right, and how soon they 
would regret their action. And then she 
remembered that there must have been 
many who did not want her. None knew 
better than she how many in the class had 
worked for Margaret Lawrence. Perhaps 
they all believed what Sue Marlowe had 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


31 


said — that she had been working slyly for 
her own election. 

Thoughts like these were disastrous for 
a class officer with a reputation to make, 
but they would not be banished until 
after the Honorable Thomas Jefferson had 
tumbled heavily into bed. She was asleep 
earlier than most of her classmates. Those 
who were exulting in victory were cele- 
brating late into the night, while the dis- 
appointed friends of the defeated candidate 
gathered in dark rooms for heated denun- 
ciation of the political methods employed 
by the victors. Margaret Lawrence, pale, 
self-contained, always mistress of herself, 
was trying to check the impotent rage of 
her blundering ally and room-mate. Sue 
Marlowe. Yet for Margaret the imper- 
tmbed, more than for any other member 
of the class, perhaps, that night was con- 
fused, and wild with strange disappoint 
ment and stinging self-reproach. She had 
wanted the office; she had not expected 
failure; she could not see why Mary Jeffer- 
son had been chosen in her place; she felt 


32 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


that it would have been wiser to withdraw 
her name than to suffer the humihation of 
unexpected defeat. 

After chapel the next morning all differ- 
ences of opinion and degrees of zeal were 
again lost in the class spirit of jubilation, 
when the other students renewed their 
congratulatory cheering. After a deafen- 
ing hmly-burly of noise that almost 
drowned the imperative stroke of the nine- 
o’clock bell, President Tom Jefferson was 
carried up three flights of stairs on the 
wavering shoulders of proud classmates, 
and was thrust, by her dishevelled bearers 
five minutes late into the silent recitation 
room. The mathematics instructor was too 
experienced to remark upon the flushed 
faces of her panting students. She turned 
to the board and continued writing question 
number three. 

“Those who have just come in may take 
paper and pencil and prepare for a written 
lesson,” she said, in even tones. 

She knew what the gasp meant, and she 
understood the flood of color that surged 





MORNING PRAYERS 










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PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


33 


and receded in the face of the freshman 
president. She was sorry that she was 
obeying orders, and carrying out a pro- 
gram arranged weeks before by her de- 
partment. 

When the ordeal was over they tried to 
laugh it off. Who cared for a single review, 
anyhow ? And the pleasure of electing 
the right girl was worth a flunk. But the 
right girl, meanwhile, went about with 
white, unsmiling lips. The president, at 
least, ought not to fail; she should be 
strong enough to bear the combination 
of election and written review with 
equanimity. Mary knew Margaret Law- 
rence could have done it. 

According to established custom the re- 
sult of the written lesson would remain 
unknown unless individual inquiries were 
made. President Jefferson did not hesitate 
to ask, and she did not quake at the answer 
for she knew what it would be. 

“But the report does not go in till the 
end of the term,” added the instructor, less 
unkind than formal, “and you will not be 


34 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


officially informed of your failure till June. 
It is not a heavy condition, and if your 
daily work had been a little stronger you 
would have passed.” 

The sting of that “if” drove an ex- 
pression of final and unwavering determina- 
tion into the face of the freshman president. 
She posted a notice of a class meeting for 
the following day, and then explained to 
Lydia and the girls in her own house what 
she intended to do. They coaxed, and 
scolded, and wept, without result. Mary 
made them promise to keep her secret. 

She conducted the preliminary business 
of the meeting — it was her second one — 
with perfect self-confidence. Her famil- 
iarity with parliamentary order astonished 
the girls, unaccustomed, as yet, to the strict 
ruling of college organizations; but more 
than that, the force of her personality, the 
undeviating directness of her judgment, 
and a strange new poise and purpose in 
her manner, dominated the minds of her 
admiring subjects. 

When the ostensible business was at an 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


35 


end, the gavel brought a sudden hush upon 
the disorderly demands for adjournment. 

“ Girls,” said the president, with a vibrant 
tone that sent a queer thrill to every heart 
in the room. “I have never thanked you 
for choosing me to act as president of 1902. 
It made me very glad and very proud; and 
I only wish I could be a really good presi- 
dent. But a president, you know, ought 
to be an all-round girl; and first of all she 
ought to have brains. 

“I have called this meeting to tell you 
that — that I have incurred a condition since 
you elected me. I haven’t the brains, you 
see, to be a good president. Of course we 
aU want the best girl for 1902’s president. 
I therefore resign the office to which you 
have elected me. I will ask the vice-presi- 
dent to take the chair.” 

Before the astonished girls could let 
loose their resentment the president had 
walked out of the room. 

‘‘Of course we won’t accept it,” shouted 
a dozen voices. And they didn’t. Miss 
Jefferson was asked to reconsider her 


36 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


resignation. It was all their fault, they 
told her, for they had not given her a 
chance to study that day. But Mary said 
that the class president ought to be able to 
manage her work and be president too. 

“But you can do it!” her friends said. 
“You didn’t know you were going to he 
president. Come back and show that you 
can do it.” 

“Not while I have a condition,” returned 
Tom, steadily. 

She did not yield. Sue Marlowe, in her 
big-hearted fashion, came and told Tom 
Jefferson what she thought of her, and 
blurted out her repentance for thoughtless 
electioneering speeches. Margaret Law- 
rence came, a little awkwardly, and with a 
touch of the grand air, to congratulate her 
on her pluck. Foxie was angry and unfor- 
giving. She thought Tom was silly to 
make a great row over a little failure such 
as almost everybody in their division, ex- 
cept Margaret Lawrence, had made at the 
same time. 

Mary expected them to elect Margaret in 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


37 


her place. It was natural that Margaret 
should expect it, too. The class that had 
already shown its preference for a girl of 
more democratic ideas, however, was not 
ready to turn its course. The little vice- 
president whom everybody liked fairly 
well, and who had conducted the necessary 
meetings satisfactorily, was unanimously 
elected, much to her own surprise and to 
the bewilderment of the Lawrence faction. 
So it came to be Polly Smith who led the 
Tree Day procession for the biggest and 
finest of freshmen classes; hut Polly Smith 
knew, without a shadow of resentment, that 
she was not the leader. Every girl in the 
class knew that the one girl who could lead 
them and hold them together, and repre- 
sent them, was the girl who had been hon- 
orable enough to throw up her leadership. 
As they watched her work through that 
year and the next, they came to see that 
she had been right. And when she had 
proved, as they knew she must, that she 
could do what she had said a president 
ought to do, they forced their real leader 
into her proper position. 


38 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


‘‘Girls, you’re awfully good to me — and 
I’ll try to be good to you,” was all she said 
when, in the spring term of their junior 
year, they made her senior president. 

There was no question about it now. 
She had held her work strongly above de- 
feat, and she had calmly beheved in her 
class through all sorts of storms. They 
knew one another now, these rolhcking 
juniors; they had quarrelled, they had spite- 
fully hurt one another, they had almost 
hated one another two years before; but 
they had forgiven much, and forgotten 
more, and Tom Jefferson was the girl who 
had made them remember their unity while 
they disagreed. They never told her what 
they thought of her, and they found faiilt 
with her very frankly; yet she understood 
the tribute of their vote. They could see 
the mist shining in her eyes whUe they 
applauded. Even Margaret Lawrence, 
bending from her fine hauteur, was genu- 
inely pleased at this election of her ancient 
rival, and Sue Marlowe, whUe she hugged 
Margaret with one arm, as a sign of her 


PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 


39 


persistent choice as presidents, pounded a 
chair with the other, in token of her satis- 
faction with the new incumbent of the 
official chair. 

They were all more deeply touched by 
one spirit than they had ever been before, 
although they had made noisier demonstra- 
tion. And when the girl they had chosen 
led them out upon the campus to their 
class tree, there were a hundred and fifty 
very husky voices that cheered for Presi- 
dent Jefferson. 


THE TRIAL OF PROFESSOR 
LAMONT 



Professor Lamont 


^‘^^MILING Brook sha’ntcome! She 
has no right to burn forensics 
with us.” 

‘‘There’s no danger, Martha. She will 
not care to come. We are not her class,” 
responded the junior president in her cus- 
tomary unworried tone. She dropped 
lazily under a tree on the bank above the 
Longfellow fountain, and pulled a grass, 
which she began to munch with apparent 
satisfaction. Her two companions regarded 
her with some uneasiness. 

“We ought to do something ! ” announced 
Naomi Hathaway strenuously. “Of course 
she won’t know the password, but she’s 
thick with some of the girls in our class, 
you know. They might smuggle her in.” 

The president’s face showed a half smile. 
She herself was as thick as anybody with 
Miss Brook. 


43 


44 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“They won’t do that,” she said. “She 
will wait for her class.” 

“As if she cared for a class!” put in 
Martha. “She’s more like a P. G. than a 
sophomore, anyhow. I don’t think any 
sophomores ought to take required Junior 
English, do you, Naomi?” 

“Oh, let the Enghsh department settle 
that,” replied Naomi, who, as vice-presi- 
dent, felt the need of settling everything 
herself. “Professor Lamont generally 
knows what to do with a clever girl.” 

“She may be clever, but she is cold as 
the moon. And I wish somebody would 
tell her not to go around with that eternal 
freezing smile on her face.” 

“Katharine Brook is all right!” said the 
president, with a gleam of that latent 
energy which had made her the most 
powerful girl in her class. “I like her a 
lot. And just because she is clever and 
indifferent, she will not pay much attention 
to the junior forensic burning.” 

Martha was not convinced. 

“You can’t tell what she ’ll do. It would 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


45 


be just like her to wrap herself up in a 
sheet and go and see what idiots we could 
make of ourselves.” 

‘‘All right, I ’ll call and ask her what she 
means to do,” said the president, still un- 
pertiu'hed, as she nodded in the direction 
of a tall figure sauntering along the board 
walk from the wooden steps that straggled 
down the College hill. 

“Don’t, Laura. Don’t do it!” 

“Why not? Hello, Katharine! Come 
and rmninate a while, won’t you? Is the 
3.20 over?” 

Smiling Brook stopped at the call, then 
moved across the grass toward the waiting 
group. The three juniors regarded her 
critically. She was so tall and slender that 
but for her poise and ease of movement 
she might have been called lank. A few 
admirers said that her wavy bright hair 
was like spun gold; those who did not ad- 
mire her said it was red. It was really 
copper colored, but persons who called it 
red were in the majority at college. Her 
skirt braid was intact and her plain gar- 


46 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


ments had been constructed and were worn 
with some grace of line. “ Her clothes fit 
her in the back,” Martha Smith had grudg- 
ingly allowed. 

“I couldn’t hear your questions,” she 
said, as she drew nearer, ‘‘but T suppose 
you asked whether the 3.20 is over?” 

“Of course,” responded Lama. “Have 
a chair.” 

“Thanks, I prefer a couch, if you don’t 
mind.” She threw herself on the ground, 
and rested her head on her hand. Then 
she looked into their three faces and 
smiled the smile that had won her fame. 
Her scarlet lips would turn up at the cor- 
ners, and when she was amused, which 
was apparently most of the time, they 
parted and showed gleams of gold in un- 
even white teeth that gave queer lights 
and shadows to the small mouth. The 
effect was a sudden brilliance that com- 
bined oddly with the steady and sometimes 
merciless look of the gray eyes, whose 
unbroken reserve made the smile seem 
supercilious. 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


47 


“Now, why do you laugh?” questioned 
Naomi, undaunted. Her own brown eyes 
were snapping with suppressed eagerness 
and anxiety. 

“ Because Miss Smith doesn’t know what 
to make of me. Do you. Miss Smith? 
You are wondering how I knew the ques- 
tion was about the 3.20 period.” 

“Yes, I am,” said Martha. “How did 
you?” 

“That was easy. Everybody always 
hails you ,with a question of time as an 
excuse.” 

“There is pain in being classed with 
everybody,” pensively remarked the junior 
president. 

“Well, Laura, tell me what you wanted. 
Your real question will no doubt be unique 
enough.” 

Miss Brook turned to Laura Connelly 
with frank good nature. She respected 
the president’s personal power and uncon- 
scious cleverness, and she liked to watch 
the elusive expression of the strong, pale, 
rather heavy features, with the roll of 
straight hair above the forehead. 


48 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“We were talking about forensic burn- 
ing,” came the answer. 

“ Oh yes, Tree Day — tomorrow night. I 
had forgotten. But that’s not a question.” 

“We were wondering whether you would 
care to go. Will you go along with us?” 

The president still munched her grass 
stalk, but her Irish eyes were full of laugh- 
ter. Martha drew a quick breath, not, 
however, before Katharine Brook had 
glanced at the three faces before her. Her 
smile became almost a grin. 

“No, thank you. The Junior Class is 
very kind, to an interloper. But — it’s not 
my class, you know.” 

“Of comse I thought you would feel 
that way, but we’d like to have you with 
us, wouldn’t we girls?” 

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed the vice-presi- 
dent, somewhat ashamed of her inhospi- 
tality. “You seem like one of us, you 
know.” 

The provoking smile became a little in- 
credulous, but Katharine’s refusal was so 
unshaken that Martha ventured to ask: 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 49 

“Why don’t you want to go, Miss 
Brook?” 

“Would you want to go with any but 
your own class?” asked Miss Brook, as she 
rose to her feet. And now she was laugh- 
ing aloud. She seemed to find Martha’s 
question very witty. She threw her head 
back and laughed again. 

“Well, if that is aU you wanted, Laura, 
I’ll go on. Thank you for your invitation. 
I appreciate it. See! The 3.20 is over. 
I had forgotten to answer your first ques- 
tion, but here comes the crowd to speak 
for itself.” 

“Am I the crowd? And what do you 
wish me to say for myself ?” asked an un- 
expected voice behind her. 

Before Miss Brook could answer, Laura 
Connelley had risen and stepped forward. 

“Miss Lamont is a host in herself, but 
never a crowd,” she said, with an air of 
bold gallantry and complete self effacement 
which only she could assume. 

Professor Lamont smiled indulgently. 
Her smile was almost as pervasive as Miss 


50 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Brook’s, but it gave rise to less comruent, 
because it did not contradict the kindly 
look in the eyes. It was a smile sometimes 
deprecatory, more often sympathetic and 
benign. 

“I hoped this crowd would contain you,” 
said Miss Brook. She faced the newcomer 
with a softened glance that made Martha 
Smith wonder whether Smiling Brook could 
be kind and gentle after all. Her well 
known friendship with Miss Lament was 
already modifying Miss Brook’s reputation 
for heartlessness. 

“I came out the south door and down 
the hill path to avoid my friends in the 
crowd, but this group was so attractive that 
my unsocial mood was dissipated. I con- 
fess I’m curious to know what you were 
laughing and talking about.” 

‘‘It’s a profound secret,” said Katharine 
Brook. 

“A Tree-Day secret? It can’t be, with 
two classes represented in the conversar 
tion.” 

“The Professor of English scents game,” 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 51 

said Laura Connelley. ‘‘We were speak- 
ing of English 3.” 

“How uninteresting! Can’t you think 
of anything more entertaining than that 
trite subject?” 

“But this is about forensic burning, Miss 
Lament!” exclaimed the hitherto silent 
Martha. 

“Then there is a real mystery! Tell 
me about it, please.” 

The absurdity of this demand was as 
clear to the head of the English depart- 
ment as to Martha herself. 

“We were just completing arrangements 
for tomorrow night,” explained the vice- 
president. 

‘'We’ve been urging Katharine to go,” 
said Laura, “ and she utterly scorns us.” 

“Urging Miss Brook to go where?” 
asked Miss Lament. She knew no persua- 
sion could force the revelation of this class 
secret. 

“To the burning.” 

“They wanted me to bum my excellent 
forensics. And of course I haven’t the 


52 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


heart to do that,” exclaimed Katharine, 
with comical irony. 

“But how had you the heart to refuse 
such an invitation?” sighed Miss Lament. 

“If only the Professor of Enghsh had 
been required to take forensics this year, 
the Juniors could extend the invitation to 
her,” said the president. 

“She has been required to read a great 
many,” was the rejoinder, in long-suffering 
tone. 

“We’ll tell you all about it when it’s 
over. Miss Lament.” 

“Shall we go home. Miss Brook? These 
shameless juniors want to continue their 
evil plotting. I hope you will not leave a 
forensic unburned,” continued Professor 
Lament, as she moved away. “And I am 
deeply grieved that my greatest ambition 
is not to be reahzed tomorrow night.” 

“The misfortune is ours,” responded the 
junior president gravely. 

“They are alike, aren’t they?” said 
Naomi, as she watched the two slender fig- 
mes and the two fair heads pass under the 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


53 


dappling shadows. “They are exactly the 
same height, and the same color; and if 
they walked alike and dressed alike, you 
couldn’t tell them apart at a distance. It’s 
queer they’re such good friends.” 

“It would be queerer if they weren’t,” 
said Laura. 

“They may look alike,” growled Martha, 
“but Miss Lament couldn’t make a snide 
remark to save her life. She’s a lady! Did 
you hear how she squelched me?” 

“Miss Lament?” 

“No, Smiling Brook. What did you ask 
her for, Laura? She’ll take you up some 
day. I had cold shivers before she ans- 
wered. Do you suppose she really cares 
for her bloomin’ old forensics?” 

“Less than you care for yours. Mat. 
And I invited her because it was the cour- 
teous thing to do. I knew she’d know you 
didn’t want her. Come along, it’s time for 
class meeting.” 

“What are we going to do?” 

“Learn the dirge,” said Naomi, “I’ve got 
it in my pocket.” 


54 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Notwithstanding the weariness of weeks 
of preparation and the excitement of the 
dazzling pageantry of a long afternoon, 
nobody ever seemed to be completely ex- 
hausted by the Tree Day exercises. On 
the night of the most famous of all burn- 
ings, the seniors, sublimely unmindful of 
the affairs of lesser classes, walked cheer- 
fully off through the increasing drizzle to 
do their last serenading as undergraduates. 
They would not come home till morning. 
The freshmen, a big and boisterous throng, 
proud in the unrivalled success of their 
Tree Day performance, were dashing about 
the grounds, airing their lusty new yell 
with a merciless iteration. The sopho- 
mores, themselves the victims of a fresh- 
men plot earlier in the day, were lying in 
wait for the juniors in the fearsome shadows 
of the west woods where the knowing ones 
had decided the burners of forensics would 
attempt to carry out their mysterious pro- 
gram. And the juniors were at this mo- 
ment putting forth from all parts of the 
lake shore, and rowing wdth muffled oars 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


55 


through the low hanging white mist to the 
place where the middle of the lake ought 
to be. They had successfully evaded the 
blockading enemy. Once fairly enveloped 
in the mist, each girl in every one of some 
fifty boats further enshrouded herself in a 
sheet and mask prepared for the occasion. 
Then the boats moved silently onward, 
headed now for a pale, glimmering light 
known to be a signal from the official boat. 
Practiced rowers massed the boats in good 
order roimd a small, open space, in the 
midst of which rested the skiff containing 
the president and speakers of the evening. 

^‘0 tempora, 0 mores!’’’ sounded in hol- 
low tone, as Laura Connelley slowly bal- 
anced herself to a standing position and 
removed her mask. 

“Fellow mourners,” she continued with 
extreme gravity “We are convened to 
perform obsequies over the despised mortal 
remains of our immortal efforts. The de- 
ceased is called away in the strength of a 
robust youth. Notwithstanding the high 
hopes which were entertained of him, dire 


56 WELLESLEY STORIES 

portents and loud-voiced lamentations at- 
tended his birth. His natural vigor was 
crushed by the inunediate condemnation 
from which his sensitive nature could not 
rally. The story of his cruel death at the 
hands of a stony hearted department ofi&cial 
whom I need not mention {groans from the 
audience), is too recent and too grievous to 
bear repetition. The deceased has entered 
upon a long rest. Bequiescat in pace. 
Naomi Hathaway, closest companion of the 
deceased through his short life of agony, 
will deliver the farewell address to the dear 
departed. When she says, ‘ O tempora, O 
mores^ soak your forensics in alcohol and 
put them on the wooden floats. When she 
gives the password, ‘ignis fatuus,* set 
your floats on the water and light them. 
Now, “pax vobiscum, tibique spiritu for- 
ensis.” 

Sounds of wailing greeted this announce- 
ment, and the hand clapping that started 
spontaneoiisly at sight of Naomi’s stout flg- 
ure entwined in a large sheet, was speedily 
quelled. The light from the one torch 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


51 


flickered across her face and threw mali- 
cious glints into the eyes that would dance 
in spite of the serious mouth and deter- 
mined chin. 

She spoke at length of her own intimacy 
with the deceased, of the weary hours she 
had spent in his company, of her fruitless 
efforts to reinvigorate him. And the only 
response she ever elicited was ‘‘creditable 
work : rewrite.” Her own experience, she 
ventured to hope, had been less unhappy 
than that of certain friends (a few were 
mercilessly named) who were known to 
have received no credit for their stupend- 
ous efforts. But she exonerated the dear 
departed from all blame. The responsi- 
bility for his inefficiency and for the misery 
of his intimate associates rested upon the 
learned argumentators who had been the 
cause of this untimely death. She then 
proceeded to “say things” about the vari- 
ous members of the English department 
which made her classmates gasp, even while 
they appreciated her fine insincerity of 
tone. They were glad Miss Lament was 


58 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


not there, and they hoped she would never 
know that it was possible to say such things, 
even in fun. Another minute, and Naomi 
was glibly apostrophizing the deceased in a 
piteous jargon of unintelligible Latin in- 
terspersed with less intelligible English. 
Gurgles of laughter were hushed, and every 
one waited expectantly. Finally, “ 0 tern- 
pora, O mores!” raved the speaker, and 
then relapsed again into jargon while there 
was an excited uncorking of pint bottles. 
The white figures held lighted torches over 
the boat rails and waited. “ Ign is Fatuus ! ” 
ended the speaker in a loud voice. Nobody 
knew what the connection was, but every- 
body let fall a small wooden float on the 
water and touched a torch to something 
thereon. The wet papers glimmered and 
flared, and in an instant a hundred and fifty 
little fires sputtered under the mist. The 
boats backed away from the circle in silence. 
It was rather solemn after all, to watch the 
incineration of pages and pages of labored 
writing which was all that ever resulted 
from the thirty-five, or fifty, or seventy 



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PROFESSOR LAMONT 


59 


hours of hard reading and thinking on some 
such question as “Are Arctic Explorations 
Justifiable?” or “Should Mathematics be 
required of College Freshmen?” They 
burned hard, those ink bespattered sheets; 
they needed extravagant drenchings in 
alcohol; many of them curled dismally and 
feU over into the lake. Long white arms 
fished them up and silently threw them 
back upon their pyres. One of the great 
ceremonies of the fom* years was almost 
ended. No one there would ever see another 
burning. The care-free spirits under the 
white draperies would be jolly juniors only 
two weeks longer. Then the dirge broke 
forth in long, wailing cadence that hovered 
like the mist over the black water. A 
Latin dirge, it was, written for the first 
brnning by the honored Professor of Latin, 
and guarded in mysterious silence for a year 
by each senior class, until it should be for- 
mally bequeathed during Tree Day week, 
to the waiting juniors. They groaned it 
forth tonight — the chant they had heard 
before, but had never been permitted to 


60 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


sing. The boats came together again, the 
wail ended, and the wag of the class stood 
up to deliver the last will and testament of 
the deceased, which consisted mainly in 
pitiless grinds delightedly applauded by the 
victims. Then the torches were dashed 
out, and the white shrouds leaned to drive 
the scattering boats through the white mist. 
Nearer shore the air was a little clearer. 
Dim fljdng shapes were hailed and identified 
by friendly voices. 

“Boat, ahoy!” called Martha Smith’s 
voice. 

“Ahoy!” responded a shape in the near- 
est boat. That was all. The boat passed 
on. Martha pulled a quick stroke or two 
and hailed again. 

“ Y ou’re not very lively. Who are you ? ’ ’ 

“Hush, Mat! The sophs will hear us.” 

“Well, what if they do, now! I know 
your voice; you’re Sue Barrows.” 

“Anything remarkable about that?” 

“No, only Fan said it wasn’t you.” 

“Fan Dolliver?” 

“Yes, I’m here,” responded Martha’s com- 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


61 


panion. “Who else have you got there?” 

“Guess!” cried a voice from the oars, 
and the boat pulled away again. 

“Mary Clark, of coiu'se!” called Martha. 
“ You can tell that stroke.” 

“Wonder who’s in the stern?” said Fan 
Doiliver. 

“Ask ’em,” replied Martha, as she came 
up alongside again with some difficulty, for 
Mary Clark was doing good work. 

“Who’s your third passenger ?” 

“Guess again!” cried Mary Clark. She 
twisted the boat suddenly at a right angle 
and started for the Tupelo shore. Martha 
was immediately after her. 

“ Hail some more ! ” she muttered to her 
boat-mate. 

“Boat ahoy! ahoy!” cried Fan to two 
whose path they were now crossing. “Cut 
off that boat ahead! A capture!” 

Before Mary Clark could turn again 
toward the shore, Martha had headed her 
off. Mary dropped her oars. 

“What do you want of me, anyhow?” 
she exclaimed. “We’re all friends, here.” 


62 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Just wanted to inquire for your health,” 
said Martha. ^‘Hope you’re well.” 

“And yoin* silent passenger in the stern,” 
continued Fan Dolliver, “does she enjoy 
good health ?” 

“Better take the stern, Martha, while I 
hold the bow,” called a voice from the 
nearest pursuing boat. “What’s the row, 
anyhow?” 

“Don’t know yet.” 

“Try the password!” 

“Oh^ don’t try to stagger us. We’re aU 
right. You know us,” said Sue Barrows. 

The password was given and returned in 
low tones. Mary Clark laughed. “Now 
go away and stop playing with us, you 
idiots!” she said. 

“Pull off your masks and we will,” said 
Fan Dolliver. 

“You couldn’t see us if we did. I can’t 
see your faces,” said Mary, and she took 
up her oars. 

“You’re bluffing! And those oars won’t 
do you any good,” growled Martha. She 
had dexterously backed Fan Dolliver into 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


63 


the stern of the forbidden boat, which was 
already made fast at the bow to the third 
boat. 

Fan leaned toward the still figure close 
beside her. 

“What’s your name, little girl?” she 
asked, and reached forward to pull the 
mask down. Instantly a sheet entwined 
hand snatched the mask and held it firmly 
in place. No word was spoken. 

“Take them ashore!” called someone 
from the boat ahead. “Tmn her about, 
and back her in. Mat!” 

Martha SAviftly obeyed, and soon had the 
narrow stern of the unknown boat crunch- 
ing the sandy beach, where a group of 
sheeted figvu*es had already assembled and 
were lighting their torches. Mary Clark 
and Sue Barrows got out, and stood their 
ground manfully. 

“No use trying to run,” they said to 
their companion. 

Martha and Fan took the motionless form 
by the elbows. 

“Stand up!” 


64 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


The apparition stood to a great height. 

“Step out!” 

It stepped out, delicately. 

“Take off your mask! Bring torches, 
girls!” 

The apparition remained motionless, 
clutching its mask. Martha went a step 
nearer, and the figure suddenly bolted for 
the boat house. The capture was accom- 
plished in three seconds. 

“Where’s Laura Connelley?” called 
some one. 

“Hasn’t come in yet,” was the answer. 

“Take off its mask!” shouted several 
voices. 

Fan DoUiver threw her arms around the 
figure from behind, and pinned the arms 
in place. 

“Don’t hurt her!” cried Mary Clark. 
“You’ll be sorry if you touch her!” 

Fan let go her hold wondering. 

“I’m going to take off your mask,” said 
Martha. 

Instantly a corner of the sheet went over 
the head, exposing, as it did so, a small 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


65 


white hand and wrist. The figure crouched 
helplessly. A lock of reddish hair gleamed 
on the white sheet under the torches. 

‘‘It’s Katherine Brook!” exclaimed 
Martha exultantly, “I knew it!” She 
tried to wrench the sheet away. 

“It is not!” exclaimed Sue Barrows. 

“Shut up, Sue!” said Mary Clark. The 
two captive juniors wriggled uneasily on 
the beach, where they had been seated in 
their bedraggled sheets, with a heavy class- 
mate in the lap of each. 

In the very brief struggle that ensued, 
the prisoner, either in pretence or genuine 
exhaustion, sank to the ground. 

“Mercy!” she said faintly, and at the 
slight word Martha Smith hounded back 
aghast, and gazed upon her foe. The flar- 
ing torches showed a heap of smeared 
sheet, a mask very much awry, and an up- 
lifted white hand. 

“I yield on condition that you search 
me no further,” said a tired, famihar voice, 
and the white hand drew off the mask. 

Clamorous girls rushed forward, but 


66 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Martha Smith vanished into the night and 
the friendly fog. 

“Miss Lamont! It’s Miss Lamont!” 

But the white hand still waved them 
away. White drapery fell over the tumbled 
hair, and threw deep shadows across the 
face. 

“Miss Lamont!” exclaimed Laura Con- 
nelley’s voice, in a tone of thrilled surprise. 
She stepped past the eager group and stood 
before the prisoner. Then the junior presi- 
dent bowed in her own inimitable way, and 
held out her hand. The prisoner stepped 
forward and took the hand. 

“I am glad you did not wait for an in- 
vitation,” said Laura politely. 

“Will you escort me home, Madame 
President?” 

“Miss Lamont does me too much honor,” 
returned Laura. Her voice shook with 
laughter, albeit she was exceeding angry. 
She removed her white robe, and offered 
her arm to the prisoner. 

“Naomi!” she cried. “Girls, tell Naomi 
Hathaway to lead the procession, and start 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 67 

it up right away. And I guess we’ll keep 
this quiet,” she added. 

The juniors watched the two figures, 
black and white, until they melted into the 
mist. 

“ 1 didn’t suppose Miss Lament would do 
it!” said one. ‘‘I shall never hke her any 
more.” 

“Well, I shall like her better than ever. 
She showed her pluck.” 

“How do you know it was Miss Lament? 
You couldn’t see her face.” 

“You could hear her voice, though. 
That sad, hollow voice was unmistakable.” 

“Look here, Mary Clark, you and Sue 
Barrows better take off your sheets and 
go home. Shall they march in the proces- 
sion, girls?” 

“No, take ’em home!” came the answer 
in chorus. 

“ Hello, Naomi, come along and appoint 
somebody to take the traitors home ! ” 

“Oh, we’ll go home straight enough you 
needn’t worry,” exclaimed Sue rather 
sulkily. 


68 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Who caught them?” panted the vice- 
president. “Let Fan Dolhver go. 0, 
girls, what in the world shall I do?” con- 
tinued Naomi. She stood before them, 
breathless, bareheaded, shaking the mois- 
ture from the tight brown curls that hung 
in her eyes, and tugging at the sheet she 
dragged behind her. “She must have 
heard every word I said! I can never 
speak to Miss Lamont again 1” 

“ Oh, she’ll take it all right. She ex- 
pected worse things, perhaps, and she’s got 
sense enough to understand.” 

“ But she’s so lovely 1 I just adore her, 
you know.” 

“Yes, we know,” laughed a comrade. 
“It’s all right about you, Naomi. Come 
along and lead the procession. Laura said 
you must. She ’s gone with Miss Lamont. 
Here’s your sheet. Put it on her, girls.” 

‘ Everybody mask!” called Naomi, quick 
to enter into the spirit of leadership. 
“And keep quiet. Light your torches and 
fall in. The whole college must he waiting 
for us.” 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


69 


Three minutes later the annual procession 
of ghostly forms was passing in single file 
round and round College Hall. Slowly, 
very slowly stepped the masked figures in 
the wavering light of their torches. Shad- 
ows leered fantastically about them, and 
the hoarse wail of the Latin dirge crept 
out over the gray campus. No one of the 
applauding spectators or jeering sopho- 
mores knew that the president of the class 
was not at the head of the line, or that 
four other well-known juniors were stalk- 
ing angrily through the fog. 

There are many difficulties, however, in 
attempting to keep even a class secret 
longer than twenty-fom* hours. A sopho- 
more soon spread the story as told by the 
juniors, and Miss Lamont’s friends among 
the faculty did not hesitate to meet one 
version with another. Monday noon 
rumors of a mock trial rippled through the 
dining rooms. Tuesday afternoon every- 
body in college was claiming membership 
in the junior class, in a mad effort to gain 
admission to the Physics Lecture Room, 


70 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


where Professor Lamont was to be formally 
tried. It was said she would attempt to 
prove an alibi, and there was a bare chance 
of her success, for she had wisely chosen 
as her counsellor Sally Davidson, the senior 
president. Sally, it was said, had fire and 
will and personality enough to accomplish 
anything she set out to do. The freshmen 
clinging to walls and railing greeted her 
with a mighty yell when she appeared in 
cap and gown at the head of the stairs and 
passed into the lecture room with a group 
of classmates. The door was closed be- 
hind her, and the freshman cheering gave 
place to sophomore yells of resentment, 
for only seniors and juniors were to be ad- 
mitted to the judicial chamber. These 
privileged class women rapidly filled the 
chairs, as well as the steps in the narrow 
side aisles. There was a stir when the de- 
fendant’s lawyer entered, cap in hand, and 
many friendly or sarcastic bits of advice 
were thrown in her direction. She was 
better liked and less adored here than in 
the noisy corridor. ‘‘She’ll give you a 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


71 


hard fight, Naomi,” called one to the junior 
vice-president, who, as prosecuting attorney, 
determined and confident, stood near the 
desk giving a final hint to her best witness. 
“Now answer every question exactly as 
I told you,” she was saying. The wild 
chatter subsided at an imperative pounding 
on the clerk’s table. 

“The Court!” shouted the clerk. The 
door was thrown open, and a throng of 
whispering girls stood to receive the court. 
The judge walked slowly to his chair. 
The whispering ceased at sight of the 
black gown, the long white wig, and Laura 
Connelley’s pale, grave face. The junior 
pride and loyalty broke forth into applause. 

“ The court is in session. There will be 
order in the court room,” said the judge. 
Everybody sat down merrily. The case 
was called and formally opened. The jury 
filed in, two members of the faculty, four 
seniors, four sophomores, and two fresh- 
men, with great expectation written on 
their twelve faces. Then there was sud- 
den silence as the prisoner was ushered in. 


72 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


accompanied by her two junior accom- 
plices in crime, who were to be tried on a 
separate charge of treachery. When Miss 
Lament was fairly seated in the dock im- 
provised for the occasion, when she folded 
her white hands in her lap, and ventured 
to look about with a well-assumed air of 
injured innocence, all forced gravity gave 
way, and amidst the gleeful laughter even 
the judge smoothed a smile out of his face. 
When order was restored the clerk read 
the charge : that the prisoner, Blanche La- 
ment, did, under false pretence and with 
malicious intent, penetrate into the official 
and sacred mysteries of the organization 
known as the Junior Class in Wellesley 
College; and that she did thereby violate 
an ancient precedent which is equivalent 
to a law of this community. 

“Prisoner at the bar,” said the judge, 
turning to the particularly limp figure 
standing in the dock, “ you have heard the 
charge. Are you guilty or not guilty?” 

“Not guilty,” came the answer. And 
then the audience leaned back in its chair 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


73 


and waited to be amused. The prosecuting 
attorney did not keep it waiting long. In 
a few short and pithy sentences addressed 
to the gentlemen of the jury, Naomi Hath- 
away alluded to the well-known character 
of the prisoner in both public and private 
life, and then summoned her witnesses to 
the stand. Martha Smith clambered some- 
what unwillingly to her place on the pine 
table drawn up beside the desk, and ner- 
vously thumped the “Principles of Argu- 
mentation” on which she was asked to 
take oath. After the preliminary questions 
concerning her acquaintance with the pris- 
oner and her last meeting with her on the 
evening of J\me 9th, the witness was asked 
to describe the appearance of the prisoner 
on that occasion. After many ragged sen- 
tences she made it clear that the prisoner 
had worn a sheet and mask. 

“Did you see her face ?” 

“ One comer of it, and her hair, and her 
hand.” 

“You are certain that this person was 
the prisoner ? ” 


7i 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“ Yes.” 

“ How did you recognize her beyond 
doubt ? ” 

“ By her voice.” Martha turned red at 
the recollection. 

Will you tell the court what the pris- 
oner said on this occasion ? ” 

“She said she’d yield if I’d let go.” 
The scream of delight that greeted this 
was too much for the embarassed witness, 
who promptly jumped off the table. 

“The witness is yours,” said the prose- 
cuting attorney to the defendant’s lawyer. 

SaUy Davidson motioned Martha back 
to the stand. She went rather sulkily. 

“ Did I understand you to say that you 
are well acquainted with the prisoner?” 
was the first question. 

“Not — not exactly. I said I knew 

her.” 

“You have known her three years?” 

“Yes.” 

“ In those three years did you ever know 
the prisoner to do an unfair deed ? ” 

“No.” 


PEOFESSOE LAMONT 75 

‘‘ Did you ever know her to pretend to 
be what she was not ? ” 

‘‘No — never before, that is.” 

“You say that on the evening of June 
9th you recognized the prisoner by her 
voice?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you happen to recall the exact 
words you heard?” 

“Of course I do.” There was laughter 
at this. 

“Will you repeat them?” asked the 
lawyer. 

“Why, first she cried for mercy,” said 
the witness, growing more and more em- 
barassed, “and then she said ‘I yield on 
condition that you search me no further.’ ” 

The prisoner in the dock turned red at 
these words, and was roundly applauded. 
The witness was about to jump again when 
the cross examiner called her back. 

“Have you ever observed,” she said 
slowly, “a resemblance between the prisoner 
and any other member of the college?” 

“Of course I have!” blurted forth Martha 


76 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


in surprise, and tlien she looked uneasily at 
the scowling prosecuting attorney. Every- 
body was watching Sally Davidson now. 

“What is the name of the member of the 
college who resembles the prisoner 

“Sm Katharine Brook.” 

“Is Miss Brook a student?” 

“Yes,” sighed Martha, “she’s a sopho- 
more.” 

“Do you happen to know what English 
comses Miss Brook has taken during the 
past year?” 

“She’s taken forensics,” growled Martha, 
“and she was in my division.” Her hope- 
less tone was inexpressibly ludicrous, and 
this time her leap to the floor was unhin- 
dered. 

Frances Dolliver and other junior wit- 
nesses corroborated Martha’s story. They, 
also had recognized the prisoner mainly by 
her voice. They were not cross-exam- 
ined. A senior who presided with Miss 
Lament at table in Stone Hall, testified 
that she had gone twice during the evening 
to Miss Lament’s room, once at eight 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


77 


o’clock, and again at nine-thirty, but had 

failed to find her at home although Miss 

Lamont had not been in the habit of going 
out on damp or very dark evenings. Here 
the prosecution rested its case. 

The first witness for the defense was Miss 
Walker, who had shared with Professor 
Lamont the privilege of instructing the 
Junior Class in English 3. She had some 
difficulty in taking the stand, but her voice 
was balm to wounded hearts when she took 
oath on Baker’s hated “Principles” to tell 
“the truth, half the truth, or anything but 
the truth, so help me George P. Baker.” 
Once mounted she stood easily in the 
middle of the pine table, and answered 
without hesitation the questions addressed 
to her. She knew the prisoner intimately, 
she had received a visit from her on Friday 
evening, June 9th. Yes, they had talked 
of English 3, in fact they had been discuss- 
ing the final records of several students, 
[groans.] Witness thought the prisoner 
might have been with her an hour, possibly 
longer. The next witness, another faculty 


78 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


friend of the prisoner testified that the 
prisoner had called upon her in College 
Hall on the evening of June 9th. No, she 
had not noted the hour, nor did she know 
just how long the prisoner had remained — 
“long enough to drink several cups of tea.” 
Professor Gallagher, the third witness, had 
called upon the prisoner at Stone Hall late 
in the evening. She had found her at 
home. Yes, witness was certain it was 
before ten o’clock, for no one but students 
remained out after ten. The commotion 
raised by this adroit statement was suddenly 
quelled by the call for Katharine Brook as 
the next witness. Perhaps among all the 
excited throng, the prisoner’s hitherto 
serene face was now the most eager. The 
door facing the audience was flung wide, 
and the witness entered. There were quick 
gasps, and then an awed silence. Miss 
Lament! Was this Miss Lament or was 
Miss Lament in the dock? Glances shifted 
quickly to the prisoner. Her face was 
awed as any — for there before her stood 
the image of herself. The newcomer threw 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


79 


her head back and looked about her with a 
shghtly bewildered air so precisely the 
counterpart of Miss Lamont’s own attitude 
on entering that the audience bxirst into a 
wild tumult of applause. The howling 
grew more and more furious as Katherine 
Brook moved languidly across the floor. 
She wore a familiar gown of Miss Lamont’s 
that hung rather loosely from her lowered 
shoulders. Her reddish hair was parted 
and brought down in exact imitation of 
Miss Lamont’s, over a forehead that might 
be any height. With well assumed em- 
barassment she took the stand, amid re- 
newed cheers, while the seniors let forth a 
stm-dy cry: 

“ Katharine Brook, 

We like your look. 

’Rah, ’Rah, ’Rah for Katharine Brook.” 

The witness turned toward the prisoner; 
she compressed her lips and smiled a depre- 
catory smile. “Forgive me for this absurd 
caricature,” said the smile. It was returned 
by the original deprecatory smile which 
now convulsed the audience anew. At 


80 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


length order was restored, and the exami- 
nation began. Yet, witness had taken a 
course in forensics with the present junior 
class. She had known the class was to burn 
forensics Friday evening. The president 
of the class had invited her to attend the 
ceremony. She had refused the invitation. 
She was not told where the ceremony 
would take place, but she was informed of 
this the next day. 

“Where were you on the evening of 
June 9th?” 

“I was in my room at Stone Hall until 
about half-past eight. Then I went out for 
a walk.” 

The idea of going to walk on a dark 
night in a white fog seemed to tickle the 
audience. 

“Where did you walk?” 

“To College Hall first, and afterward by 
the lake.” 

“Were you near the shore when the 
juniors landed their boats?” 

“Yes.” Here Katharine Brook’s smile, 
and not Miss Lamont’s appeared on the 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


81 


face of the witness. The gentlemen of the 
jury were leaning forward with strained 
faces. 

“Did you see anything which caused you 
to recognize the prisoner in the person who 
was captured on the beach?” 

“I did not.” 

“Did you hear the words spoken by the 
captive?” 

“I did.” 

“Will you repeat them?” 

The witness hesitated a moment, until 
there was absolute stillness in the court 
room. She bent her head a little, and com- 
pressed her lips. 

“Mercy!” The word was faint and 
plaintive. 

Every face turned involuntarily toward 
the prisoner, who was gazing steadfastly at 
the witness. 

“I 3deld on condition that you search me 
no farther.” 

The weary, hollow tone floated to the 
furthest corner of the room. The prison- 
er’s lips had not moved, but the blood 


82 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


leaped to her face at this imitation of her 
own suppliant voice. Then she laughed till 
she cried, while the court room again re- 
sounded with furious applause. 

The prosecuting attorney, quick to ap- 
prehend that such a witness would be more 
damaging than helpful, waived the right of 
cross examination. In his final address to 
the jury he made a strong plea for the 
plaintiff, in sentences that flashed with wity 
personalities. His address was intended to 
convince the jury that an interloper had 
penetrated into the most solemn and secret 
ceremony of the class, and that the evidence 
proved conclusively the identity of the 
prisoner and that interloper, in spite of the 
tawdry and sensational masquerading which 
had disgraced the dignity of the court. 

Then Sally Davidson arose in her might 
and harangued the jury in words that tum- 
bled out in steadily increasing fire and 
emphasis. She was a good speaker. She 
had a good audience and a strong case, and 
she outdid herself. She talked hard for fif- 
teen minutes. “And now, gentlemen of 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


83 


the jury,” she said at last, ‘‘I fearlessly 
trust the decision in this case to yoiu: wise, 
your subtle, your honorable, your experi- 
enced judgment. The question is perfectly 
clear to you. The Junior Class whose repu- 
tation in this community needs no com- 
ment, chooses to embark secretly on a dark 
night upon an invisible body of water where, 
amid foul incantations, they wantonly de- 
stroy unscholarly literary productions which 
they are ashamed to have inspected. These 
unprincipled students discover the presence 
of a stranger who has listened to speeches 
which they are ashamed to have heard. 
(The prosecuting attorney flushed, and 
turned a crimson, beseeching face to the 
prisoner, who smiled indnlgently). They 
are unable to discover who this stranger is. 
They claim to know her by her height, her 
— uh — golden hair, and her voice. Gen- 
tlemen of the jmy, there are two members 
of this college who have that same height, 
that golden hair, and that voice. One of 
them is a student who has taken the course 
in English 3 with the present junior class; 


84 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


a student who was invited by the juniors to 
accompany them. The other member of the 

college who answers to this description ” 

The speaker paused, took several strides 
forward, then turned, with one arm out- 
stretched toward the dock. “Gentlemen 
of the jury, that other member of the col- 
lege is the prisoner. There she sits. A 
prisoner! A woman who holds, and who 
will continue to hold the unfaltering esteem 
of every member of this community. Gen- 
tlemen, it remains with you to recognize 
and establish the innocence of our honored 
prisoner.” 

No one heard what the judge said to the 
jurymen before they filed out. No one 
heard what anyone said, for everyone was 
pounding her hands together and shouting 
to her nearest neighbor. No one but Sally 
Davidson knew what the prisoner said to 
her lawyer as she leaned far over the bar to 
grasp that gentleman’s hand. In fifteen 
minutes the jury returned a verdict of not 
guilty, and the court adjourned. Every- 
body except Martha Smith, who preferred 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


85 


to make her excuses in private, pressed 
toward the prisoner. Naomi Hathaway 
was the first to congratulate her. And 
then, while everybody was frantically shak- 
ing hands with anyone who stood nearest, 
the crowd opened to admit Katharine 
Brook and Lama Connelley into its heart. 
There was renewed laughter when the two 
Miss Lamonts stood face to face and hand 
in hand. 

“Miss Brook, you have saved my life. 
But do I look like that?” 

“It is my misfortune that I couldn’t 
make myself sufficiently handsome for the 
occasion. But never mind! I did save yom 
life, as you say, and I gave myself a brand 
new experience. I like being metamor- 
phosed, and I think I’ll retain this exterior.” 

“Don’t, I beseech you,” begged Miss 
Lament. 

In her threat to retain her new person- 
ality, Katharine was quite unconscious of 
the sudden approval it had gained for her. 
She had shown that spirit of fun which 
always finds glad recognition among college 


86 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


girls; she had shown a bold indifference to 
consequences which they admired; and she 
had done for a friend what many believed, 
rightly or wrongly, to he an act involving 
some sacrifice of personal pride. Nobody 
could want to be thought a sneak. 

‘‘I don't really believe it was Katharine 
Brook at all,” said Fan Dolliver, “but 
whether it was or not, she’s a jim dandy 
girl!” 

“Well, what I’d like to know,” Martha 
was saying to Fan, on the edge of the dis- 
persing crowd, “What I’d like to know is 
who that swooping red haired captive of 
mine really was. I’m stumped.” 

And many junior minds still shared 
Martha’s uncertainty. Laura Connelley 
was not slow in grasping this fact. 

“You will have to do something, Katha- 
rine,” she said as she walked toward Stone 
Hall between the real and the feigned Miss 
Lament, “to convince the girls that you 
really were not on the lake, after all.” 

“ Oh, that doesn’t matter,” was the re- 
sponse. “They would think even worse of 


PROFESSOR LAMONT 


87 


me if they knew I had stayed in my room 
all the evening to read Plato. As it is, 
we’ve all had our fun, and the girls don’t 
know whether to admire Miss Lament for 
her courage in going, or for her discretion 
in staying away.” 

“They shall know in time,” said Miss 
Lament, “but I have had the richest ex- 
perience in this frolic. I have heard im- 
speakable things at the heart of a mystery, 
and I have made Miss Brook everlastingly 
famous.” 

“Notorious, at least,” said Smiling Brook. 




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Clorinda 

T he ‘‘Kansas Whirlwind” swished 
through the hall and bounded 
up two flights of polished stairs, 
clattering her heels as she went. A heavy 
thump landed her hundred and seventy 
pounds in the corridor at the top, where 
she paused, — not to regain her breath, for 
she was always breathless, but to summon 
her courage. The tempestuous energy 
which had earned her nick-name in college 
suddenly slipped from her as she moved 
hesitating, down the passage. 

The door at the end stood ajar, giving a 
glimpse into an untidy, sunshiny room, 
where bright garments lay on chairs or 
dangled from picture corners. Ruby Gra- 
ham advanced timidly to the door and 
tapped twice. No sound replied. She 
peered through the crack and saw that the 
room was without an occupant. An impa- 
tient exclamation popped from her lips, 

91 


92 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


and she turned, half disappointed, half re- 
lieved, to face the opening door across the 
hall. 

“Good morning. Ruby. That noise did 
belong to you, did it ? ” 

The voice dwelt over the words with a 
hearty drawl; two firm hands caught both 
the girl’s pudgy ones, and two eyes beamed 
golden lights as their owner drew the unre- 
sisting whirlwind into her own room. 

“Looking for Clorinda? She’s gone to 
town to stay all day. You may see from 
her room that she went in a hmry, as 
usual. But don’t look so disappointed, 
child. Can I do anything for you?” 

“No, thank you, Leigh. Its nothing, 
only — only Miss Treverton promised me 
a dance at the Barn Swallows this after- 
noon, and I thought I’d remind her and 
put down the nmnber,” gulped Ruby cour- 
ageously. “Won’t she be back for the 
dance?” 

“That’s beyond the knowledge of any 
mortal,” Leigh returned. “It’s safe to say 
that she ’ll stay in town till she wants to 


CLORINDA 


93 


come out to Wellesley. But cheer up! 
I’ll take the dance, if I may, or at any 
rate another one, in case Clorinda does 
come.” 

“Thank you,” quavered the crestfallen 
Ruby, “that will be lovely, only ” 

“Only what?” laughed Leigh Dalton. 
“Only a dance with a girl from home, 
whom you’ve known all your life, isn’t 
quite so interesting, even though she is a 
senior, as a dance with the most fascinating 
of juniors? Now, Ruby, I don’t mean to 
interfere with your doings, but I must say 
a word about this affair. Your father told 
me to look after you, you know.” 

“Yes, and you’ve been just fine to me, 
Leigh! I don’t know what I should have 
done at first without you.” Ruby’s large 
face became both pleading and apprehen- 
sive. “I know you don’t hke Clorinda 
Treverton, but you can’t expect me to hate 
her because of that, — and she is so grand!” 
the girl finished naively, and then squirmed 
uneasily in the low chair that she filled. 

“ Y ou do n’t know her, ’ ’ Leigh said. “ I’ve 


94 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


watched through two years of college, and 
I do know her. Now, kid, I won’t say 
things to set you against her, but I don’t 
want to see your Freshman year made less 
happy by Clorinda Treverton. You 
haven’t known many girls well, so you 
haven’t the judgment to see that she 
doesn’t always mean all she says. She’s 
not quite genuine, dear. Don’t you see?” 
You mustn’t trust all her words seriously.” 

Ruby flared. 

“Leigh Dalton! You’re saying horrid 
things. She’s lovely to me 1 Just lovely ! ” 

“So she is to everyone who admires her. 
But she seems to forget you easily. I saw 
her pass you without a nod or a look Satur- 
day, when she was with some men, and yet 
your bunch of violets was on her dressing 
table that minute.” 

“She’s absent minded,” was Ruby’s de- 
fence. “I’m not to care if she does seem 
not to remember, she says, it doesn’t 
mean that she wants to hurt me. That’s 
why I came to remind her about the 
dance.” 


CLORINDA 


95 


‘‘You kid. You poor child! She’ll keep 
you trotting. But I ’ll let you alone, dear 
— only do try to think, once in awhile, 
whether it’s all as fair as you want it to be. 
Now tell me your news from Kansas. I 
had one fat letter from home last week.” 

Ruby maintained a lofty air of injured 
dignity throughout the remaining half hour 
of chat, while Leigh Dalton, anxious not to 
lose her hold on this clumsy, good-natured 
youngster, tried to dispel the unpleasant 
ness of her warning. Under her geniality 
Ruby relented so far as to indulge in a 
gurgling laugh before they parted. 

After the door had banged behind her 
visitor, Leigh Dalton set about carving a 
dozen gourds into the semblance of gro- 
tesque faces for an approaching Hallow’ een 
party and while she made vigorous slashes 
with her knife, she was thinking in vigor- 
ous condemnation of Clorinda Ti’everton’s 
careless attitude toward the truth and things 
in general. 

Leigh had been a sophomore when 
her neighbor across the haU entered college 


96 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


as a freshman. She always yielded a 
smile to the recollection of their first en- 
counter — an early one, for Fate had thrown 
these two uncongenial students continually 
together from the beginning. Leigh, on 
the ‘‘welcoming committee,” had been at 
the station to receive the newcomers. On 
the crowded platform there was the usual 
bustle of first day. Good natured porters 
skirmished among stacks of trunks at each 
end, and amid the intervening throng of 
scurrjdng girls madly greeting one another, 
anxious strangers in new traveling suits 
stood timidly beside parental protectors 
and regarded the scrambling confusion. 
Leigh had already set one batch of these 
bewildered newcomers with their faces 
toward College Hall. Bawling drivers and 
weary receiving committee were silent in 
the lull between trains, and Leigh was 
turning toward a vacant seat when there 
stepped from the waiting-room a tall, dash- 
ing young woman with a guitar case and 
a self-sufficient air. Leigh had offered her 
hand as she smiled a word of greeting. 


CLORINDA 


97 


The slender figure stood erect, and the 
cold eyes surveyed the plainly dressed, 
unassuming girl before her. ‘‘I am Clo- 
rinda Treverton. Thank you, I can find 
my own way very well.” 

Leigh remembered the words, and her 
own feeling of astonishment when Miss 
Treverton had turned and swung the wait- 
ing-room door between them. “I can find 
my own way very well.” She had told 
the story that night in laughing mimicry 
to a group of friends who were discussing 
the conspicuous new arrivals. “ Just wait ! ” 
the girls had cried indignantly. ‘‘She shall 
have a chance to find her own way.” Poor 
Clorinda! It seemed to Leigh this morn- 
ing that Miss Clorinda Treverton had not 
progressed very far in her two years of 
independent path finding. 

Had Leigh Dalton known her neighbor 
more personally, she must have pitied her 
either less or more. Clorinda had been 
quick witted enough to see her blunder, 
when a few days of college had made her 
familiar with the name and face of the 


98 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


plain girl who had holdly accosted her in 
the station. She regretted that her clearly- 
defined intention of taking the college by 
storm had played her false at the first 
critical moment. She meant to he the 
most popular girl in Wellesley. Her hand- 
some face and figure, her pretty clothes, 
and her manner were to win her instant 
recognition among the hest girls in college. 
She would he careful to accept none but 
the most prominent as her friends; and to 
them she would be so winsome, so lavish, 
that she shoxild gain the good will of these 
older girls and still hold a high position 
among her classmates. But her first month 
was marked by conspicuous errors, and it 
was too late, after that. She was watched 
askance. Her sweetness was lost on girls 
who distrusted its genuineness. After re- 
peated trials she was branded ‘‘sham” by 
the instinctively fair-minded girls who form 
public opinion in a great college. At the 
end of her sophomore year Clorinda Tre- 
verton, always a noticeable figure in the 
corridors, was as unimportant in college 


CLORINDA 


99 


affairs as the timidest of freshmen. She 
had received no society invitation — an 
omission to which this ambitious, self- 
dependent young woman could not easily 
become reconciled. Her companions were 
among a certain very small clique of 
wealthy, rather heavy minded girls, who 
found college spirit and college traditions 
beyond their understanding. Augusta 
Hayden, leader of this little coterie, admired 
Clorinda in her unseeing fashion; and Clo- 
rinda, brought low by oblivion, accepted 
tolerantly this tribute which had given her 
the only constant friendship of the two 
years. 

With this long stride into junior privi- 
leges, however, Clorinda became conscious 
of a change in the attitute of those about 
her. The last of the students who had been 
“ upper-class girls ” when she entered, had 
become scattered alumnae, and to her now 
belonged the honor of the upper-class girls. 
Instead of seeking admiration from classes 
above her, she sought and found it in those 
below; instead of seniors who liked to be 


LofC. 


100 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


flattered there were now freshmen who 
liked to flatter. These younger girls, with 
their ideals yet untested and their reputa- 
tions to make, readily yielded to the charm 
of Miss Treverton’s commanding personal- 
ity, and unquestioningly enjoyed the 
spreads served by her and Augusta Hayden 
for freshman appetites. 

Ruby Graham was perhaps the most 
whole hearted of Clorinda’s followers. The 
clumsy westerner was full of adoring won- 
der for the languid grace of the southerner 
Her dancing Ruby thought the very 
poetry of motion. She had never had the 
joy of dancing with this perfect leader, but 
she was to have it at the Barnswallow’s 
Ball, for Clorinda had actually promised to 
take out upon the floor Ruby, who bounced 
like a toy balloon. She knew she bounced, 
and wondered, while she swathed her mas- 
sive form in white organdy, whether Miss 
Treverton would keep her promise after see- 
ing her dance. Then Leigh’s words brought 
a few twinges of misgiving which Ruby in- 
dignantly demed in her heart. 


CLORINDA 


101 


It was easy to forget her annoyance 
when she found herself in the midst of the 
merry troop of girls who were pouring into 
the Barn, for “Barn” the huge, bare struc- 
ture must always be, notwithstanding the 
well equipped little stage and the smooth, 
hard floor of the interior. Here the pret- 
tiest dances and the most complete theatri- 
cals went vigorously on from week to week, 
under the supervision of the various clubs, 
but most frequently under that of the 
“Barn Swallows,” to which any member of 
the college might belong. Today the 
rough posts were roped with evergreen, 
the benches along two sides of the great 
hall were covered with the usual over 
supply of college cushions, the waxed floor 
shone with reflected light, and an increas- 
ing throng of girls promenaded, awaiting 
music. Rnby, under the protection of a 
friendly sophomore, clutched her program 
with warm fingers, and saluted her acquaint- 
ances with full-voiced vigor. 

“Give me the first waltz, Ruby?” asked a 
classmate. 


102 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“The first dance is mine, you know,” 
her sophomore escort reminded her. 

“And I am to have a place, honey.” 

Leigh Dalton’s homely voice put an end 
to Ruby’s first bewildered confusion. 

“Oh, yes! of course, Leigh. Which 
shall it be?” 

Leigh’s program was already well filled 
with initials of the forgotten and unpopular. 
There remained two dances near the end. 

“Give me thirteen or fifteen,” she said, 
showing her card. 

Ruby hesitated and blushed. 

“Haven’t you any others ? I wanted to 
keep the end of my program free, you 
know, in case — suppose Miss Treverton 
should come late. I’m engaged to her for 
one.” 

“I have no others,” returned Leigh, a 
little wrathfully. She had planned to bring 
the wilful Ruby before some of the best 
seniors this afternoon. 

“Ah, Leigh, I hate to lose it. My card 
is nearly blank because I’ve just come. 
Can’t you give me four or seven?” urged 
Ruby penitently. 


CLORINDA 


103 


But Leigh only showed her penciled 
card, and moved away as the music began. 

In an instant many pairs of girls were 
circling about the floor to the beat and 
clank of a street piano and a tambourine. 
For the Barn Swallows were both economi- 
cal and cheerful, and the noisy rhythm 
of the “hurdy-gurdy” provided dance 
music quite as inspiring as an orchestra, 
and far cheaper. Moreover, here were 
none of your weary fiddlers. The man at 
the crank and the woman at the tambour- 
ine wrinkled their faces into smiles as the 
girlish figures shifted and glided to the 
clang of the hurdy-gurdy. 

Ruby, in an eager glow, hopped about 
her sophomore escort until the music 
stopped, when her exhausted partner went 
in search of lighter footed company. 
Left to herself, the Whirlwind began a 
circuit of the hall. She bumped among 
groups of gossips, whisked awkwardly into 
corners, and everywhere peered anxiously 
for the sight of Miss Treverton among the 
light gowns. A sudden descent upon the 


104 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


carriage drivers loitering just outside the 
door brought her no news of Miss Trever- 
ton’s retin^n. This investigation led her to 
imagine that Clorinda Treverton woMd 
surely come on the next train, in time for 
one of the last dances that she had refused 
Leigh. Now and again, as she was whirled 
about the room, she caught a glimpse of 
Leigh’s serene face looking cheerfully over 
the shoulder of an unsteady partner, and 
she was sorry. Her father thought so 
much of Leigh! But he didn’t know Clo- 
rinda Treverton. In the course of her 
restless wandering during the intermission. 
Ruby found Augusta Hayden in a side 
room. While they stood together, cooling 
their throats with sherbet, Augusta gave 
what reassurance she coiild. ‘‘Clorinda 
may come in right away,” she said, “and 
she may not come at all — but she had 

promised so many dances ” which 

words brought Ruby both hope and uneasi- 
ness. As soon as possible she escaped from 
Augusta’s restraining talk, in order that 
she might watch the door through which 


CLORINDA 


105 


Miss Treverton must come soon if she 
came at all. Ruby’s listening ear had 
caught the whistle of the Boston train. 

As she stepped into the great hall from 
a door near the stage, her eagerness was 
arrested by a fair picture. The whirling, 
noisy throng had been transformed into a 
tableau. Along one side of the room the 
Barn-swaUows had grouped themselves in 
semicircular rows of unconscious symmetry. 
The girls in front had rustled gently to the 
floor; the rows behind were kneeling; and 
over their shoulders leaned the standing 
figures. Every face was tmned toward 
the centre of the room. There, in the 
open space before the light gowned Ameri- 
can girls, the Italian woman, in her gaudy 
foreign garments, swayed her lithe form 
and swarthy arms to the tinkle of her tam- 
bourine. Marvellously the light toy twirled 
and spun and clattered. And when the 
motionless rows broke into a flutter of ap- 
plause, the man at the hurdy-gurdy flashed 
a white-toothed smile over his arm at his 
companion artist. Ruby, at the end of the 


106 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


room, looked and applauded with the 
rest, yet let her glance wander to the out- 
skirts of the crowd and beyond, to the 
door. She did not see the door open, how- 
ever, and was startled to find her attention 
caught and held by the apparition of a tall 
young lady whose black tailor suit, and 
toque with a dash of rose, made her a con- 
spicuous figure among the evening gowns. 
She stood well, looking down smihngly into 
the face of Augusta Hay den, who had some- 
how met her at the door. Her tawny skin 
gleamed with the early night air and mist 
that she brought with her into the heated 
room. The flexible movement of her car- 
mine lips coiild be seen across the hall. 
One gloved hand held her long black skirt 
from the floor; the other gesticulated lan- 
guidly as if she were purring out a lazy 
account of her day in town. 

Clorinda Treverton knew the value of 
contrast, and she was perfectly conscious 
of her own advantage as she rested there 
in easy attitude. Evening dress did not 
become her, the girls said. Whatever the 


CLORINDA 


107 


reason, she had chosen to appear in a tailor 
gown just at the moment when peoples’ 
eyes were beginning to weary of light hues 
and fluffy skirts. Her apparent uncon- 
sciousness of the attention she attracted 
added to the aflfectiveness of the pose. 
Without greeting the welcoming faces, 
she suddenly left Augusta Hayden’s side 
and shot across the open space till she stood 
between the Italian performers and their 
audience. The whirling tambourine hung 
suspended a moment as the woman paused 
in astonishment at the interruption. Clo- 
rinda’s lazy eyes saw the displeasure in the 
Italian’s face. She went closer and spoke 
a few hasty words. The tambourine player 
smiled and nodded, and finally turned 
away to crouch on the floor, while Miss 
Treverton again faced the audience. 

“Ladies an’ genelmen,” she rolled out in 
her rich southern accent, “Ah’ve been in 
this hyah Bahn many a time, an’ Ah’ve 
never yet done an exhibition. With yo’ 
kind puhmission. Ah will now dance a 
double-shuffle.” 


108 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


There was some laughter and hand clap- 
ping at this. The girls knew Clorinda was 
a good entertainer. 

“Mistah Salvatore” — she had the name 
already — “will play fo’ me. Mistah Sal- 
vatore, have yo’ a rag-time two-step?” 

“Mistah Salvatore” pushed a peg and 
signified his willingness to begin. Clorinda’s 
long black skirt left the floor a few inches, 
to show the nimble feet. The hurdy-gurdy 
rattled out two measures of rollicking 
music, to which Clorinda’s head beat em- 
phatic time, and then the double shuffle 
began. It was a simple bit of agility and 
endurance, learned at home from an old 
negro servant, but its novelty won instant 
enthusiasm, Clorinda, rolling her eyes, 
pounded away with a dogged energy that 
earned the undisguised scorn of the tam- 
bourine player. The more the audience 
applauded, the faster patted the twinkling 
shoes, until with a sudden relaxing of tense 
muscles, the dancer stopped and the musi- 
cian was left hopelessly turning out his 
noisy music. 


CLORINDA 


109 


Clorinda strolled carelessly across the 
open space to beckoning conarades, and 
received imheeding the bevy of freshmen 
who demanded a repetition of her perform- 
ance. 

‘‘Shan’t dance another step this even- 
ing, honies. Don’t you think I must be 
tired, after walking through the city of 
Boston?” 

“But you’re going to dance with me, 
aren’t you. Miss Treverton?” 

“And with me!” 

“Not a step this evening. I’m tired,” 
was the answer. 

“You shouldn’t have promised, then!” 
Ruby’s voice was indignant and her hot 
face shone with honest wrath. “I’ve saved 
my last dances for you, and you ought not 
to promise dances when you know you’re 
going to town.” 

Miss Treverton’s temper was not sme 
when she was tired. She regarded her 
mentor, crumpled and warm. 

“If you had any sense you wouldn’t dance 
at all, you get so hot. I’m ashamed of you 
child. Why don’t you go home?” 


110 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Clorinda was as cool and unruffled as if 
she had never moved or spoken. Ruby 
admiring while she gazed, flared the more. 
A native dignity, undeveloped but true, 
came to her aid. 

“I shall go home when my fun is over. 
Miss Treverton,” she said forcibly, and 
turned away with a fair show of indiffer- 
ence. 

Leigh Dalton, who was passing the group 
in her confused search for her next part- 
ner, overheard the insult, and stood ready 
to take the desolate Ruby into her care. 
Ruby, however, was in no mood to demand 
sympathy. For another hour her laughter 
rang heartily under the great beams, and 
her feet danced unweariedly until the last 
guest made ready to depart. 

With all her indifferent demeanor, how- 
ever Ruby could not soon forget the after- 
noon of the dance. It was the first time 
Clorinda’ s temper had ever expressed itself 
incautiously to Ruby. The freshman was, 
accordingly, startled with her first real 
doubt of Miss Treverton’s goodness. She 


CLORINDA 


111 


waited a week before she went again to 
Miss Treverton’s room, meanwhile solacing 
herself with corridor glimpses and nods, 
and frequent visits to Leigh Dalton, across 
the hall. Most earnestly she listened to 
Augusta Haydn’s explicit and alarming 
reports of a change in Clorinda. 

Augusta’s perception was not quick, yet 
her faith in its promptings was imperturb- 
able. Her Jewish ancestry had endowed 
her with a temperament almost supersti- 
tiously sensitive to impressions. Just now 
she was eager to share with curious younger 
girls all the details of her observation of 
Clorinda. Ruby, wandering disconsolately 
to Augusta’s door in College HaU, one 
gloomy afternoon just as twilight was clos- 
ing in, found the room full of freshmen 
and sophomores listening eagerly to an 
alarming account of Clorinda ’s queer be- 
havior. The unsteady blue light from the 
alcohol lamp beneath the tea kettle flick- 
ered faintly on the elaborate decoration of 
the over-fmnished room, while Augusta, 
like a priestess at the tripod, waved a silver 


112 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


tea ball and chanted forth dismal prophecies 
concerning Clorinda. 

“She’s been different, somehow, since 
that afternoon at the Barn when she 
danced. Her moods are so uncertain — 
and sometimes” — her voice dropped, and 
her hsteners stiffened with the creepy effect 
of her whisper — “sometimes she even talks 
to herself. And she doesn’t sleep till long 
after midnight. I’ve seen her light often. 
She caught some dreadful infection in Bos- 
ton, I know she did. And she’s coming 
down with it now — it’s nearly three weeks. 
She’s worrying so that she’ll never live 
through it, and of course she won’t tell.” 

All this seemed plausible. 

“Why don’t you, or some one find out 
where she went and aU about it ? It’s wicked 
to make her worry all alone.” 

Ruby’s sudden words from the doorway 
were impatient and almost tremulous. 
Augusta rolled her black eyes sensationally 
and flourished her tea ball. 

“She won’t say a word about herself. 
And when I asked her where she’d been in 


CLORINDA 


113 


Boston, she almost snapped my head off. 
She turned pale and her mouth looked all 
drawn. It was some awful place, and she 
knows she has the disease already.” 

“ Then she ought not to stay in college. 
She wouldn’t be allowed to, would she?” 
remarked Ruby doubtfully. 

“She has no place to go to,” continued 
Augusta. “Of course she can’t go way to 
Louisiana when she’s so ill.” 

“Perhaps she’s not ill at all. She may 
be just worried.” 

“She said she had a headache when she 
broke her engagement with me yesterday,” 
came from one of the huddled figures on 
the couch. 

“I wish ” began Ruby, and was 

unceremoniously silenced by a long brown 
hand that reached from behind to cover her 
mouth. 

“Have then thy wish! You were going 
to long for me to complete this bug-a-boo 
circle, weren’t you? And Miss Gussy, 
she’s so overjoyed to see me that she can’t 
speak. Go right on wid de task, ladies an’ 


114 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


genelman, I’ll squat in de corner with 
Ruby to my uttah obsclusion. Come along, 
lady Ruby, there aren’t any more chairs.” 

From behind Ruby’s eclipsing bulk, 
Clorinda, from her corner leaned forward 
and let her flow of talk continue, regardless 
of Augusta’s voluble greeting. 

“Howdy, Miss Mary Hudson, Howdy, 
Miss Julia Marston. Now this is right 
pretty company. Ruby, let me lean against 
you. The wall is too hard. Thank you 
kindly, honey. Why don’t you turn on the 
electricity? It’s ghostly dark in here. The 
hoodoo man will git yo’ ef yo’ don’ watch 
out. Oo — o — o — o! See dem blue fires 
aflickah’in! An’ dere’s a screech owl out 
in de pines. Oo — o — o — o! Don’ yo’ hear 
im? He’ acomin’ to set on de chimbly, 
and ’turn dis hyah house into dead folks’ 
houses. I seen a white buzzard fly across 
de moon to-day.” 

“0, Miss Treverton, please don’t! Do 
turn on the light, somebody, quick!” 

The ground glass bulb over Augusta’s 
head brightened with a snap and illumined 


CLORINDA 


115 


startled faces. A glad deep drawn breath 
escaped the girls at this sudden return to 
light and familiar things. The glowing 
colors of Augusta’s cushions, the gilt edges 
of her books, the greens and reds and 
purples of her poster frieze, restored the 
customary sense of assurance in the present 
moment. There was relieved laughter. 
Ruby looked both mirthful and anxious. 

“Clorinda, you peanut!” cried Augusta. 
“Why do you say such things? Julia 
Marston don’t feel quite safe yet. Here, 
Juha, drink some tea.” 

While the girls comforted Julia with 
friendly jibes. Ruby turned to Clorinda. 

“ You were perfectly wierd. Miss Trever- 
ton. I hope there’s nothing the matter. 
You’re not having real premonitions are 
you?” 

She looked with anxiety into the other’s 
face, and bent her arm about Clorinda’s 
shoulder. 

“Oh, I’ve heard Mammy Jane get off 
reels of that stuff. She can tell you the 
sign of anything from a caterpillar to a 
stopped clock.” 


116 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


‘‘But you made us all shiver, and I know 
you shivered yourself. Your signs aren’t 
any good, are they? I hope you’re not 
going to be Ul.” 

Ruby’s vague fears had given her sudden 
courage to venture the suggestion. Augusta 
turned from her kettle to listen. 

“I’m all right,” said Clorinda briefly. 

“But the girls were just saying you 
looked tired, and I thought — ” 

“What business is it of yours?” Clo- 
rinda’s voice was savage. “If I am solemn 
you think I’m ill, and if I’m gay, you act 
as if I were a raving maniac. Can’t you 
use a little sense and let me alone?” 

She pulled herself up with an exasper- 
ated jerk. To Augusta she spoke abruptly. 

“ Will you give me a cup of tea now, or 
shall [ wait till all our young friends are 
served?” 

“ Oh, come off ” returned Angusta cheer- 
fully. “ Of course you can have it if you 
ask pretty.” 

“Well, give it to me, then.” She swal- 
lowed the steaming beverage and handed 


CLORINDA 


117 


back the cup. “I’m going home now, 
where I can move my eyelids without any- 
one’s fussing over the shadow they make.” 

There was no dignity in her petulent 
departure. The girls exchanged astonished 
glances at her burst of temper, and one of 
them began a sneering remark. Ruby 
turned defensively. 

“You think I ought to be angry at the 
way she spoke to me. Maybe I am, a little, 
but I’m more sorry about the thing that 
makes her act so different. Something’s 
the matter, and I’m going to find her now. 
You can talk all you like when I’m gone.” 

She flounced out in time to see Clorinda’s 
skirts disappearing around the corner; but 
when she reached the head of the stairs 
the skirts were two flights down. Over 
the banisters Ruby caught another glimpse 
of Clorinda, standing beneath the palms, 
now, and swinging her golf cape about her 
shoulders while she chatted with a black- 
haired sophomore. Already her mood had 
softened. An instant later Ruby from the 
portico, joyously watched the sophomore 


118 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


turn off towards Stone Hall, while Clo- 
rinda’s shadowy figure under its golfhood 
extinguisher, was sauntering in the direct- 
ion of the cottages. When Ruby came up 
behind her, she was whistling a strain from 
‘‘The Runaway Girl.” Her greeting would 
have assured a spectator that the two 
friends had been parted a month. 

“You dear child, where did you drop 
from? I was just thinking how scared I 
am to go home alone in the gloaming. 
Now you shall walk up to Freeman with 
me.” 

“Oh, I can’t. Miss Treverton. It’s 
almost dinner time and I’m not dressed. 
I just wanted to see you and ” 

“Come to dinner with me, then. You 
must. I want you to,” insisted Clorinda 
imperiously, and then with sudden plead- 
ing, “now do come, honey!” 

She was not to be resisted. In the 
humility of an “everyday” shirt waist. 
Ruby accordingly found herself entering 
the Freeman dining room behind the silken 
Clorinda. The meal had already begun. 


CLORINDA 


119 


and, furthermore, there was no other fresh- 
man in the room: two facts which so 
emharassed Ruby that she settled herself 
almost calmly to the uncomfortable situ- 
ation. The two were merry enough, at 
first, but Clorinda gradually quieted into 
indifferent silence as her chatter failed to 
gain the attention of the upper class girls 
about her. They were in the habit of dis- 
regarding her unless she became especially 
hilarious. Even admiring Ruby observed 
this, and soon wondered at the neglect of 
Clorinda’s housemates in tacitly excluding 
her from the cheerful after dinner groups 
on the stairs or about the piano. Almost 
immediately Clorindo led her upstairs. 
They sat in halting conversation until 
Ruby’s conscience drove her to depart. 
Clorinda dismissed her abstractedly, scarcely 
replying to the girl’s trembhng words of 
thanks and half uttered sympathy. 

Ruby, shuffling fearfully down the dark 
hill, thought in pity of the listless face she 
had left alone in the noisy houseful of girls. 
In her heart she vowed a vow to stand by 


120 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Clorinda in spite of moods. Her remem- 
brance of angry words but made her vow 
the faster. 

Clorinda, at that moment, needed the 
practical aid of a friend more than Ruby 
could guess. She was in trouble; and the 
trouble forced itself into the midst of daily 
activity and reappeared in pets and tem- 
pers. It had already stifled the gayety she 
had summoned against it, and was now 
lashing her miserably. She began auto- 
matically to put away some of the clothes 
and books that were always strewn about 
her floor. While she worked she thought 
aloud, as one tries to quell mental confusion 
by an oral review of facts. 

‘‘Not Ruby — she wouldn’t care for me 
afterward. And neither would Augusta. 
They must both keep on liking me. But 
I’ve got to go to somebody. Julia Marston 
would despise me, too.” 

Her upper lip and nostrils were twitch- 
ing nervously, but she did not cry. Clo- 
rinda never cried except in theatricals. 

“I haven’t a single friend who wouldn’t 
despise me,” she muttered. 


CLORINDA 


121 


A tap roused her attention. 

“Come,” she called, in the act of scrap- 
ing five pairs of shoes from under the edge 
of her couch. 

Leigh Dalton’s face appeared. 

“ They said Ruby was with you, and I 
looked in to give her a message.” 

“She’s gone,” returned Clorinda blimtly. 
Then Leigh’s honest face prompted a new 
thought. Clorinda acted upon it. “But 
won’t you come in?” she asked cordially. 

“No thanks. I’m reviewing my cat’s 
circulatory system.” 

Clorinda hastened to the door before 
Leigh could vanish. 

“Can’t you give me a minute, Leigh? 
I was just going to your room.” 

Leigh was vaguely surprised. 

“Ruby?” she ventured. 

Clorinda laughed easily. 

“No indeed. That child is no trouble. 
She’s easy. And if she were n’t so fat I 
might grow right fond of her. Ruby’s a 
good girl.” 

This brief summary of her young charge 


122 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


set the lights darting dangerously from 
Leigh’s eyes. 

“I can’t stay long,” she said. “What 
do you want to talk about?” 

“About myself, of course. Try this 
chair, Leigh. Dump the things off. That 
broadcloth coat is one cause of all my 
troubles. I’m just worried to death!” she 
ended, exasperated, and turned her back 
on her guest, under pretence of arranging 
the curtains. 

“Well,” she continued, when she at 
length seated herself before the silent 
Leigh, “it’s the proper thing for you to 
say you’re sorry, isn’t it?” 

“I am sorry,” said Leigh. “Why do 
you tell me ?’ ’ 

“ Don’t all the girls tell you their troubles. 
Miss Popularity? You help them out, 
don’t you? I thought perhaps you would 
help me.” 

“I don’t think you’re the sort I could 
help.” 

“Wait till you know me — and my httle 
story.” 


CLORINDA 


123 


Then Clorinda stopped, and her dark 
face slowly reddened under Leigh’s quiet 
gaze. 

“Go on,” urged Leigh. “Your confes- 
sion isn’t begun yet.” 

“You always show as much sympathy as 
this?” queried Clorinda, and then Leigh 
blushed. 

“Now we’re quits, and I’ll begin,” said 
Clorinda. But she didn’t begin. 

“Really, Clorinda, if you’re in trouble 
I’m awfully sorry. Tell me, and I won’t 
be hard on you any more.” 

“You never did like me or approve of 
me, Leigh, so of course I never liked you 
right heartily. But you ’ ve got sense, and 
I want you to tell me how to get some 
money.” 

“It takes more than sense to get that. 
How much?” 

“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.” 

“What is it for?” 

“Debts.” 

“I don’t know how you can get it 

unless you sell some finery.” 


124 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Leigh was an economist by nature and 
necessity. She felt scornful of the word 
debt in company with cloth gowns and 
mahogany furniture. 

“It’s the finery that did it,” confessed 
Clorinda. “Of course it isn’t salable now, 
and I wouldn’t sell it if it were. These 
bills are left over from last year.” She 
took a handful from the desk. “The 
tailor’s bill for my spring suit is the worst. 
And here are two summer hats. And the 
rest goes to the caterer and the florist.” 

“Do you want to earn the money?” 

“Bless your heart, how could I earn 
money! Me? I might as well try to 
walk on my head. Some folks must make 
money, and others spend it. I’ve spent 
my allowance, and now these miserly tailors 
and florists threaten to notify the college 
authorities if I don’t pay before the first of 
November.” 

“That’s next week.” 

Leigh listened and commented as if she 
were attending a committee meeting. She 
offered no suggestion. 


CLORINDA 


125 


“I must borrow the money,” said Clo- 

rinda, “and do it right off, too . 

Could you lend it to me, Leigh?” Her 
voice became a husky whisper. 

“You know perfectly that I can’t,” 
returned Leigh. “Everyone in college 
knows I’m here on a scholarship, and 
worked two years at Fiske cottage to pay 
for my board.” 

“’Pon my word, I didn’t know it, Leigh. 
And you so popular?” 

“I am more famous than my spreads are, 
that’s certain,” said Leigh with pardonable 
spirit. 

“ Can ’t you borrow it for me ? ” persisted 
Clorinda. “I hate to ask you, but I must 
have it. It ’s impossible to get it from 
home just now.” 

“How would you pay it back, then?” 

“Oh, I’d have to save on my allowance. 
I could do it in six months.” 

“Then why didn’t you do it before?” 

“Leigh, you are the most stony-hearted 
girl I ever knew. You needn’t pidl me 
into shreds. I’ve thought about this for 


126 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


weeks. I know I’ve been a fool, and 
worse. I know it a good deal better than 
you do. I know it’s my own bitter fault 
that I haven’t a friend in this cold, merci- 
less, crowded college who is willing to help 
me out of a scrape that I needn’t have 
walked into. I am in it, and I’ve got to 
get out of it or leave college — for I ’ve got 
a lot of college bills impaid, besides. Be- 
cause I thought you were the best girl I 
knew, I came to you for help. I had no 
fear that you could hate me more if you 
knew. And instead of treating me like a 
Christian, you turn me down.” 

It was plain that Clorinda had laid aside 
the sham. Leigh felt sorry and rebuked 
as she looked into her weary, pleading 
eyes. 

‘‘I haven’t the money, Clorinda, but I’m 
glad you told me. I ’ll try. Perhaps I 
can get it.” She remembered an offer 
made to her the summer before by a faculty 
friend. She had refused it then ; perhaps 
she could ask for it now. 

“No, you needn’t try. I’d rather you 


CLORINDA 127 

wouldn’t.” Clorinda’s haughty words be- 
lied the hope in her face. 

“I’ll try to get two hundred dollars, if 
you will give me your note.” 

“Of course,” said Clorinda, wondering 
what a note might be. 

“And the twenty-five dollars you can 
earn.” 

Clorinda stared. 

“You are strong and hearty. You could 
sell things. The girls would buy anything 
of you.” 

Clorinda laughed. 

“Why don’t you sell candy to your 
spendthrift friends?” 

Clorinda whooped aloud. 

“Now, honey, just because you’re doing 
me a favor, don’ yo try ter boss dis hyah 
chicken.” 

“ Sell Allegretti’s! I’ll help you.” 

Clorinda’s face sobered with admiration 
and wonder. 

“Here?” 

“Yes, in your room, or sometimes in 
mine. I’ll help you when you’re busy. 


128 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Write now to Chicago and find out what 
they’ll allow you a pound. I’ll tell you 
what to say.” 

Clorinda’s spirit caught the joke. She 
wrote at Leigh’s dictation. 

“ Tell yo’ what, honey, dis hyah niggah 
gwine eat mo’n he sell,” she commented, 
as she sealed the letter. 

The following week the tailor’s bill was 
receipted and Leigh had in her possession 
a piece of paper signed by Clorinda Tre- 
verton, who promised to pay in six months 
the sum of two himdred dollars. She 
knew Leigh had borrowed the money with 
some difficulty, but she did not see the 
precisely similar note which Leigh had 
given to her unnamed friend. Although 
it was the fashion that year for every girl, 
rich or poor, who had the wit, to sell any 
salable article from sofa pillows to shoe 
blacking, there was general astonishment 
when Clorinda displayed a poster. It an- 
noimced that the most famous chocolates 
in the world might be obtained at 34 Free- 
man. The girls bought hungrily and ac- 


CLORINDA 


129 


cepted with easy banter Clorinda’s explan- 
ation that she wanted to know how it felt 
to earn money for her own violets. It was 
not long, however, before she lost interest 
in the game, and considered ‘‘office hours 
for Allegretti’s” a bore. Leigh acted as 
sole proprietor after the first month, but 
declined to serve after the hohdays. when 
she learned that the fifteen dollars made in 
that time had been spent, in truth, for 
fresh violets, rather than for old florist’s 
bills. 

The softened mood which had succeeded 
to Clorinda’s despair soon lost itself in her 
usual heedlessness. Leigh had become 
more sympathetic, if not more approving, 
but Clorinda’s thoughtless, haughty manner 
at length restored the old inharmonious 
relation. Although she seldom saw Clo- 
rinda after the holidays, Leigh was more 
tolerant of Ruby’s unswerving allegiance 
to the most fascinating of juniors. Ruby 
felt the difference and became more com- 
municative. She had not understood Clo- 
rinda’s sudden revival of good spirits in 


130 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


the autumn. Clorinda had good naturedly 
accounted for it by “a lucky investment,” 
and had shown so many moods since that 
Ruby had brief time for brooding over any 
one. Through them all, however, she had 
remained faithful to her vow, although 
many of her friend’s wiles were becoming 
clear to her. 

As the spring advanced it was Leigh who 
became moody. During the Easter vaca- 
tion she worked furiously at certain scien- 
tific drawings for one of the departments. 
Ruby vaguely guessed that she needed 
money, but since Leigh had been meeting 
financial crises all her Hfe, the thought did 
not bring any especial uneasiness to Ruby. 
As April passed Leigh’s face grew dark. 
One day Ruby found her in Clorinda’s 
room. Both girls were plainly excited. 
Clorinda was cold, and Leigh was cross. 
She frowned upon Ruby and left the room 
without a word. 

“I’m sorry I can’t help Leigh Dalton 
out of her scrape,” said Clorinda. “ I wish 
people didn’t always want things at the 


CLORINDA 131 

wrong time. I ’ve got heaps of bills of my 
own to pay,” 

It was May Day morning when Ruby 
dragged the truth out of Leigh. The 
freshman had hm-ried, with a troop of her 
boisterous classmates, to gain conspicuous 
standing room about iheporte cocker e from 
which point on the hilltop they could watch 
the annual hoop rolling of the seniors. 
Ruby stood near the circle, where she 
might snatch the hoop from Leigh as soon 
as the mournful exercises shoiild be over. 

“ There they come ! There they come ! ” 
shouted high voices, and straightway a dis- 
organized yell was let loose from the crowd. 

Down the steep roadway of the opposite 
hiU, and up the dusty incline of the col- 
lege drive rushed the puffing seniors. 
Black gowns and angel sleeves flapped in 
the wind, little white sticks pattered crazily, 
and dizzy hoops rolled and tumbled at all 
angles. When the romping black figures 
reached the level circle, where the falling 
hair and hot faces could be recognized, 
wild applause, interspersed by appropriate 


132 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


junior jeers, broke from the throng. 
Slowly the silent figures swung round the 
gravel, solemnly the line wound itself into 
mysterious circles, and eagerly the lower 
class girls watched the hoops of which 
they were to become the proud possessors. 
Ruby gazed and cheered, but she did not 
find Leigh’s face. She was pushing her 
way through the tumultuous crowd that 
poured into College Hall, when she espied 
Leigh, gownless and hoopless, squirming 
through the corridor. Ruby bounded 
after. 

‘‘Leigh, I want my hoop.” 

Leigh continued her abstracted squirm- 
ing. 

“Leigh! Leigh Dalton!” Ruby raised 
her mighty voice above the hum of the 
crowd, and waved her arm over the heads 
that surged between them. 

Leigh wriggled into a niche made by a 
door, and waited. 

“I want my hoop, and where’s your 
gown? Leigh, what’s the matter?” 

For Leigh’s eyes were heavy and her 


CLORINDA 


133 


face was flushed with something besides 
hoop rolling. 

“My hoop’s at home. I’m not a little 
kid. I’m grown up.” 

Her voice was infinitely sad. 

“Come out doors,” commanded Ruby, as 
she folded Leigh under her arm. 

“Why weren’t you a kid ?” asked Ruby, 
when they were seated on a sunny corner 
of the south porch. 

“Look at those broken hoops on the 
path. Don’t they make you feel young?” 

“You kid!” answered Leigh. Her eyes 
filled. 

“Oh, don’t do that, Leigh. Where were 
you this morning?” 

“In Miss Turner’s room. On business.” 

“ Oh.” Ruby accepted the repulse. 

Leigh made a dash in the air with her 
handkerchief. 

“It’s just money matters. Nothing you 
could understand.” 

“I’ll bet I could find a way out.” 

“Not if I can’t.” 

Ruby mused. 


134 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“ Clorinda refused to help you the other 
night, didn’t she?” 

“How do you know?” 

“She said she was sorry she couldn’t 
make things easier for you, but — 

“But what ?” 

“Oh, she had a lot of bills herself, she 
said.” 

“It’s all Clorinda’s own fault! ” exclaimed 
Leigh angrily. 

“You mean that she doesn’t pay her 
bills?” 

“No. That she doesn’t pay mine 

She owes me money.” 

“Clorinda Treverton owes you money? 
I don’t believe it.” 

“I’ve got her note for two hundred dol- 
lars. I didn’t mean to tell you, though.” 

“How did you get it?” 

“I lent her the money.” 

“You old chump! ” 

“Fire away, kid.” 

“What did you lend Clorinda that money 
for? She’s awfully extravagant. And she’s 
lots richer than you are.” 


CLORINDA 


135 


“It was last fall. She was in debt, and 
she had to pay or leave college. I borrowed 
the money for her.” 

“You old chump! It’s just like you 
though. But what’s the matter? She’ll 
pay it in time, won’t she?” 

“I don’t know, but I’ve got to have it 
now. Time’s up. You see I gave Miss 
Turner my note, too.” 

Ruby pouted over this complication a 
moment. Then, “ Miss Turner won’t care,” 
she ventured reassuringly. 

“But she does care. She’s as kind as 
she can be, hut I could see how disappointed 
she was. I told her I would siuely have it 
the last week in April.” 

“What a bad business woman you are! ” 

“But Clorinda seemed to have money.” 

“ Clorinda Treverton is an .” Then 

Ruby remembered her vow. “Never mind, 
Leigh. Please don’t take it so hard. You 
always have found a way out, you 
know.” 

“I never disgraced myself before,” said 
Leigh. 


136 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


She would not be comforted, and soon 
went disconsolately in to the library. 

Ruby sat in the sun and thought hard 
for ten minutes. Then she went in and 
despatched a letter to her father. He had 
always cared so much about Leigh. And 
Ruby herself loved Leigh Dalton a thous- 
and times more than Clorinda Treverton. 
She hated Clorinda. 

She carefully ignored Miss Treverton the 
remainder of the week. When at length 
she sought her, she went timidly to a sunny 
spot on the Tupelo shore where she knew 
Clorinda hked to lounge in spare periods. 

‘‘Hello, Miss Ruby. You looking for 
me?” 

Clorinda’s large white teeth were gleam- 
ing. 

“Yes. Are you studying?” 

“Me, studying? Bless your heart! Did 
you ever see me study?” 

“When do you do it?” 

“In the dead of night. Never when the 
blessed sun shines. Let’s go on the lake.” 

“I can’t.” 



THE LAKE AND SETTEES 





CLORINDA 


137 


This, from Euby to Clorinda, was stag- 
gering. Clorinda leaned against a tree and 
regarded the freshman from under half- 
closed lids. Ruby lowered her eyes and 
began nervously digging up the moss. 

“I’ve just come on an errand.” 

She drew from her belt a letter, and 
from that a strip of blue paper. 

“I just wanted to ask you to give this to 
Leigh Dalton to-day.” 

For the fraction of a second Clorinda’s 
eyes became round. She took the paper 
languidly and read it with half closed eyes. 
It was a draft on New York, made out in 
her name. 

“What is this for?” 

“For Leigh.” 

“She’s been blabbing, has she?” 

Clorinda sat erect with uptilted chin. 

“No, Clorinda, I got it out of her almost 
accidentally. I didn’t mean to, and she 
didn’t either.” 

“You’ve been prying into my affairs, 
you sentimental cub. I didn’t think you 
were a sneak.” 


138 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Here’s a pen. It’s got to be endorsed, 
you know — made over to Leigh. ‘Pay to 
Leigh Dalton or order, on the hack.” 

“I won’t do it. It’s my money. Why 
should you dictate to me?” 

“Because I gave it to you. You are in 
debt to me now. It’s my money. Father 
had put it in the bank for me. And I 
don’t care whether you ever pay it or not.” 

Ruby grew restless under Clorinda’s 
persistent gaze. 

“Don’t, Clorinda!” she cried. 

Clorinda’s face glowed and smiled. 

“Honey, chile, what’s come over you?” 
she said. 

“Don’t talk that way,” pleaded Ruby. 
“You know you can make me lose my 
head. But I know you, just the same.” 

“Of course you know me,” agreed Clo- 
rinda’s hearty voice. 

“ I ’ve stood up for you all winter when 
people said things about you, because I 
had made a vow to believe in you till I 
knew you were — were n’t sincere.” 
“Well?” 


CLORINDA 139 

“ Well, I know how you treated Leigh, 
and I want you to make it up to her.” 

“You really want to help me out?” 

“Yes — you and Leigh. I want you to 
write Leigh’s name now.” 

Clorinda wrote it. 

“I suppose you’ll take this check to her 
and have a grand scene.” 

“It’s a draft. No. You send it to her. 
I don’t want Leigh to know.” 

“You want her to think I sent it? ” 

“ Yes, of course.” 

“Then you like me, after all. You’re a 
darling. Ruby. I could kiss you for this.” 

“Don’t. It’s for Leigh, more than for 
you. Don’t you see, Clorinda? I liked 
you, but I can ’t like you any more, as I 
did before ” 

“Before I owed you money. Of course, 
chile.” 

Clorinda was on her feet, moving swiftly 
toward college. 

“You have insulted me enough this 
morning. Miss Ruby Graham. I may owe 
you money, but I owe you nothing else. 


140 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


I will never accept a thing from you, 
again.” 

“Please don’t, Clorinda.” 

“Don’t talk to me.” 

“Well then, I won’t,” returned Ruby. 
Her roimd eyes snapped. “I won’t talk 
to you any more. I can’t bear you, any- 
way. You are lovely and you are — 
deceitful.” 

Clorinda tossed her head and swept on 
past the boat house. Ruby wandered un- 
happily in the opposite direction. 

“ I suppose this is the end,” she mourned, 
as she trailed off through the budding 
woods. “I’m sorry for her, and I hate 
myself. But if I hadn’t been a ninny I 
couldn’t have helped Leigh.” 




SUBMERGED 






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1 

T he 10.50 period was over; the 
hum that resounded through Col- 
lege Hall announced that the 
11.45 had not yet begun. The fomth-floor 
centre was filled with groups of upper-class 
girls, shifting in kaleidoscopic fashion to 
compare note books or to discuss the proba- 
bility of a quiz. Near the railing, a little 
apart from the throng, stood two seniors in 
cap and gown, to whom approached a third 
in golf skirt and shi”-^ „aist. 

“Admire my head-dress?” she asked, 
pointing to the scarlet leaves stuck in her 
dark hair as a red man wears his feathers. 

“Hannah!” exclaimed her immaculate 
roommate, “I wish you’d comb your hair. 
And look at the burrs on your skirt!” 

“ My hair is all right. Honey. It’s what 
Dr. Greene calls ‘blown hair,’ and it’s more 

14S 


144 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


becoming this way. ITl take the burrs off 
in class. You ought to have some your- 
selves, you two old pokes. I’ve been round 
the lake. Did it in a period!” 

“You exult as if you had done Heraclitus 
in a period,” remarked Anna PenhaUow, a 
tall, fair, fine featured girl who had been 
pointed out to the freshmen as president of 
the Christian Association. “I do n’t believe 
you’ve put your nose into a book.” 

“Not to-day. I read up on the old gen- 
tleman last week. Why, don’t you know 
the sun shines, you old chump? And the 
woods are raining red and yellow leaves? 
To come to philosophy at all, on a day like 
this, is the most unphilosophical deed I 
know. If I didn’t respect Dr. Greene more 
than any other faculty in college — ” 

“Because she admires your hair?” in- 
quired Molhe, the incorruptible roommate. 

“You idiot! Anyhow, I do n’t fall asleep 
under her adorable nose, as you do, even if 
it is an 11.45 Think of those poor fresh- 
men down there,” she continued, by way of 
diversion, “Math. 1 at 11.45 is the sleepiest 
and hungriest course in college.” 


SUBMERGED 


145 


The three classmates stood looking down 
at the galleries about the open centre. A 
subdued buzz came from a shadowy com- 
pany leaning over the second floor railing 
far down on a level with the tops of the 
palms. The third floor was noisy with 
eager or anxious freshmen, many of whom 
bobbed their heads contentedly in response 
to the slightly patronizing recognition from 
seniors in the upper galleries. 

As Mollie tmned toward the lecture room, 
Hannah pulled her back. 

“Look! Look at those two freaks! Who 
are they?” 

“I don’t see any freaks.” 

“Well, here’s a chance for Mollie May- 
nard to acknowledge the existence of a 
freak. Down there! See? Third floor, 
alone, by the south railing, with crocheted 
collars on their shoulders. They are look- 
ing straight at us. Some of your young 
friends. I’ll bet an Allegretti. Oh, lordy, 
look at the slick hair on the long-faced one ! ” 

“And the crinkled curls on the romid 
one,” continued the Christian Association 
president. 


146 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Mollie had disappeared. 

“Ish presarve us! ” exclaimed Hannah in 
another minute. She had a fondness for 
apostrophizing Ishbosheth or any other bib- 
lical personage whose name lay in her mind 
as a relic of sophomoric misery. “Ish pre- 
sarve us! There’s young Molhe talking to 
them. Look at them beam ! I knew they 
were some of her freaks.” 

“Molhe’s aU right!” said Anna warmly. 

‘‘She would be if she didn’t go to those 
moody prayer-meetings so much.” 

“How do you know whether they are 
moody or not?” 

“I know how they affect homesick and 
susceptible freshmen. I’ll wager my new 
hat that she’s asking those poor things to 
prayer-meeting tonight.” 

“She might do worse. But they gener- 
ally come without being asked. Name’s 
Johnson, I think. They live at the Eliot. 
Mollie took them to the Association recep- 
tion because she thought nobody else would 
choose them. She’ll be late. There’s the 
bell. We saved a seat for you.” 


SUBMERGED 


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As the door of the lecture room closed, 
MoUie Maynard hastily gathered up her 
gown and sat down beside Hannah, already 
busy with burrs. 

“Ask ’em to prayer-meeting? ” whispered 
the latter scornfully. 

“No. I asked them to come and meet 
my roommate this evening. I said you 
wanted to know them.” 

“The next two lectures,” announced Dr. 
Greene, “will be devoted to the develop- 
ment of the Heraclitean doctrine, and its 
influence on later Greek thought.” 

And straightway all speculation about 
freshmen faded from Hannah’s philosophic 
mind. 

Mollie Maynard was the only girl in Han- 
nah’s immediate circle of friends who had 
what she called the prayer-meeting habit. 
She heartily admired her roommate’s deli- 
cate and sure poise of character, which, by 
its very consistency, often rebuked her own 
irregularities of conduct. Yet she could 
not sympathize with Mollie’s habit of giv- 
ing expression to what Hannah considered 


148 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


her prejudiced and almost sentimental re- 
ligious feeling, and she was always a little 
scornful of her friend’s “missionary labors.” 
These Johnsons, she knew, must be Mollie’s 
latest attempt in that line. They needed 
it, perhaps, although she was inclined to 
regard them as hopeless. When evening 
approached she found herself desiring to 
omit her roommate ’ s tea party. She strolled 
into the student’s parlor after dinner, and 
remained there in animated talk with cer- 
tain attractive freshmen whom she enter- 
tained royally while she considered in 
another lobe of her brain, whether they 
would do as members of her society. When 
she left them, “I’U not speak to another 
freshman tonight,” she thought. “I’ll go 
up to the psychology lab.. I’ll go down to 
the house. No, I’ll get my note book and 
hide in the library.” To get the note book 
she was obliged to go to her own room. 
The sudden hum of steps and voices in the 
corridors warned her that prayer-meeting 
was over. She ran up the stairs. When 
she reached 96 she listened a moment to 


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149 


assure herself that there was no talking 
within; then she flung open the door. 

Seated precisely on the edge of the couch 
before her, were the Misses Johnson. The 
crude red and blue of their cashmere frocks, 
to which the crocheted collars had been 
transferred, flashed inharmoniously against 
the dull fabrics of the cushions, and the atti- 
tude of the wearers seemed to betray a haK 
consciousness of the incongruity of their 
presence in the room of the senior who had 
been kind to them. Just now they were 
looking with untroubled eyes at the grace- 
ful figure in the doorway. Hannah’s poise 
expressed polite uncertainty. 

“Excuse me — can you tell me where 
Mollie Maynard is?” she questioned, secure 
in their ignorance of her identity. 

“You are her roommate, are n’t you?” 
asked the curly haired one, blushing and 
smiling in sudden modesty. 

Miss Moore was sufficiently rebuked. 

“Yes, I am,” she admitted, extending her 
hand. “And I remember now that you 
must be Miss Johnson. You are both Miss 


160 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


J ohnson, are n’t you ? But you see I thought 
you were coming with Mollie.” 

“Miss Maynard said she was going to get 
some water,” returned the curly haired one. 
“She took her little tea kettle. I am Char- 
lotte, because I’m the youngest. Jenny, 
she’s Miss Johnson.” 

“Mollie wasn’t very polite, in my opin- 
ion,” remarked their hostess, to make con- 
versation after the limp hands had been 
touched. “She might have waited till I 
came.” 

“Oh, no! We wanted her to go,” ex- 
plained Miss Johnson, on a sudden venture. 

“We said we would look at the things,” 
continued Miss Charlotte, as her sister real- 
izing that she had broken silence, stopped 
abruptly. “They are all so pretty! Miss 
Maynard has the most beautiful things I 
have ever seen.” 

She could not have made a happier 
speech. Mollie Maynard and Hannah 
Moore were a pair of friends who disagreed 
about many matters, but whose taste met 
in a rare unanimity on the subject of room 


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151 


decoration. Both had the wish and Han* 
nah had the money, to make it the most 
artistic and uncoil egiate room in College 
Hall. Hannah’s pride was so well satisfied 
by this commendation of it that she did 
not trouble to insist upon her ownership of 
most of the “things.” 

“Perhaps some of them are yours,” sug- 
gested Miss Johnson politely. 

“Oh, yes. Of course we go shares. Do 
inspect anything you like to look at. On 
that bookcase by the window are many of 
Miss Maynard’s possessions.” 

The two girls rose with alacrity and 
walked to opposite corners. Hannah stood 
in the middle of the room regarding her 
guests. Miss Charlotte was wrinkling her 
small forehead and dragging her finger 
across the bindings of Mollie’s books. 

“How much Miss Maynard knows!” she 
sighed. 

“ Oh, not such a lot,” returned Miss May- 
nard’s roommate. “She’s the best girl in 
the college, but there are a few things 
Molhe doesn’t know — except in Math. 


152 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


She is a shark in Math. She has been a 
tutor ever since we were sophomores.” 

“That’s an awful long time,” said Miss 
Johnson, while her sister was finding breath 
to voice a new idea. 

“A tutor? Do they let freshmen take les- 
sons of her? 0 I wish I could ! Could I?” 

“Yes, I should think very likely you 
might,” thoughtfully replied Miss Moore. 
“All you’ve got to do you know, is to tell 
yoxu" instructor that you think Math, is 
hard, and you would like to have a tutor. 
Then she will recommend Miss Maynard.” 

“Jennie, do you hear that? We can tutor 
with Miss Maynard!” 

Miss Johnson, inspecting the opposite 
wall, turned her head to say, “Yes, but 
even that wouldn’t make Math. easy. I 
can’t do it. What’s that?” 

She pointed to a tiny transparent green 
glass on Hannah’s desk. 

“That’s just a liqueur glass.” 

“What’s written on it?” 

“A quotation from Wagner. I found it 
in Germany last summer.” 


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153 


Miss Johnson was evidently impressed by 
the mention of Germany. She scanned her 
entertainer with a new interest, to which, 
however, she gave no expression. She 
changed the subject with an effort. 

“Those are queer faces,” she said, indi- 
cating a row of exquisitely modeled tragic 
masks hung across the bedroom door. 

“I like them,” exclaimed Hannah, with 
more enthusiasm than she had felt before. 
“I have spent hours before the glass trjdng 
to make my face take on those expressions. 
See!” 

Mollie, tea kettle in hand, opened the 
door just then, to behold her roommate in 
rigorous heroic attitude. The soft, dark 
silk of her gown gleamed modishly under 
the electric light; her handsome young 
face was transformed into the agonized 
countenance of a tragic personage. The 
two guests were staring at her, one in dark 
astonishment, the other in childish glee. 

“Stand, bold adventmer!” exclaimed the 
tragedian, flourishing a hairpin dagger at 
the intruder. 


154 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“ Lend me your vessel for to drink my fill, 

Or by my trusty steel I’ll drink your blood ! ” 

“Peace, fool, peace!” replied her room- 
mate, calmly. “She is not crazy, girls. 
Her mad moods are a little startling to 
strangers, but I’m glad she was here to 
amuse you, while I was looking all over 
college for her.” 

When Mollie Maynard had seated herself 
behind the tea table, the room took on 
a different aspect. Foreign photographs, 
strange little ornaments, even furniture, 
lost their individual attractiveness and feU 
into a delicate background for this high- 
bred face and figure. In sudden content 
at her presence, the two freshmen forgot to 
look at the “things,” they even forgot to 
wonder at the pecuharities of Miss Moore, 
who seemed to them rather a guest hke 
themselves, than one of their hostesses. 

Miss Moore retired to the bedroom to 
heave her own private sigh of relief, and to 
readjust various hairpins and combs. When 
she drew the portiere aside again, and 
stepped into the other room, the freshmen 


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156 


were both talking at once. Charlotte, 
seated in the middle of the floor, let her 
words tumble out heedlessly, while her sis- 
ter commented in stacatto on what Char- 
lotte said. Hannah interrupted the talk to 
give them the steaming cups that Mollie 
had just filled. She had not questioned 
their taste for lemon and cloves in tea, but 
they accepted the feast equally without 
question, and ate and drank appreciatively. 

To avoid the threatened extinction of 
conversation, Mollie inveigled her room- 
mate into relating certain tales of their 
own freshmen days. The four eyes over 
the tea cups grew round and big with 
astonishment at such daring exploits. Just 
as Hannah’s spirits began to flag, Anna 
Penhallow entered to the rescue, with a 
short girl whose boyish smile extended 
well over her round face. It was a win- 
some face, and very fair, despite the freckles 
that crowded it even to the roots of the 
curly yellow hair. She was introduced to 
the Misses Johnson as ‘‘Miss Gwendolen 
Milton, a sophomore, commonly called 


166 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Johnnie, because she is so unlike her grand- 
father’s fourth cousin’s great imcle, the 
poet.” 

“I’m not exactly proud of my Uncle 
John,” began Miss Milton, when she had 
helped herself to a handful of wafers and 
braced her fat form comfortably against a 
bookcase. “In fact, I’m ashamed of every- 
thing he ever wrote. I can make funnier 
verses myself. I’ll say some to you, some- 
time. But I am to ask you people to come 
and see us make fudge.” 

“This is your usual way of ‘making’ 
fudge, Johnnie,” said MoUie, handing her a 
second cup of tea: the first had gone at a 
gulp. “You’ll get back in time to eat it.” 

“That’s the beauty of a roommate,” re- 
sponded the unperturbed one. “Miss John- 
son I hope you have learned to make fudge.” 

“ No ; but I know what it is. A girl gave 
me some once, and it’s very nice.” 

A pause followed. “I guess we’d bet- 
ter be going,” announced Charlotte. 
“Jenny — ?” 

“Yes, I guess so, too,” said Jenny. 


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167 


They rose and stood uncertainly, Mollie 
gave them her hand in turn. 

“The next time you come we’ll show 
you how to make fudge. Come soon.” 

“You must come and see iis,” responded 
the girls in unison; then Jenny shifted her 
attention to Miss Moore. “I’m happy to 
know you,” she managed to say, and then 
edged awkwardly to the door. 

“We’ve had such a good time,” said 
Charlotte. “It’s just like a story. Good- 
bye, everybody!” 

Almost before the door closed, a hoarse 
shout of inquiry went up from Gwendolen 
Milton. 

“Where did you find those chumps?” 

“They are inoffensive, at least,” said 
Miss Penhallow. “But the poor things 
will have a hard time.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with them, 
anyway, besides being the worst freaks in 
college ? Who are they ? ’ ’ persisted J ohnnie. 

“They are poor, and they came from 
some little manufacturing town — Brockton, 
or Rock Bottom — and their mother is dead. 


158 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


They don’t speak much about their father, 
although they have one, and they feel like 
ducks in a swan pond,” ended Mollie. 

“Come along, girls,” said Hannah, 
abruptly, “let’s try Johnnie’s fudge.” 

“I can’t,” said Anna, “and neither can 
Mollie. We have association committee 
work.” 

“Well, I’ll bring you some if there’s any 
left,” promised Johnnie, politely, as she 
clattered her cups down on the bookcase. 
“Come, Nan, I’ll say my poem on the way.” 

Hannah laughed, and threw an arm in- 
dulgently over Johnnie’s shoulder, as they 
strode off together, to the marked emphasis 
of Johnnie’s strong voice: 

“ There was a horrid Japanese, 

Whose face was always livid. 

He dwelt in awful filth and grease, 

Now ain’t that picture vivid?” 

And a minute later the evening silence of 
the corridor succeeded to the sound of their 
footsteps and laughter. 


II 


A s the winter term sped over the 
shortening days, everybody set- 
tled into the routine of the 
week’s work and the habit of spending the 
few idle hours of each day with a small 
and unvarying group of friends. Even a 
girl of as many whims as Hannah Moore 
soon found herself doing the things she 
was expected to do. In the midst of the 
winter’s distractions she thought little of 
the two freshmen who had given her a bad 
quarter of an hour. She knew them to be 
laboring with Mollie, and she knew that 
Mollie had taken them to see her perform 
in a Barnswallow play. Although she was 
glad that Mollie had not persistently 
brought them to Room 96, she secretly 
admired her roommate for sustaining a 
kindness which had been shown in the first 
place as one habitually shows kindness to a 
new girl. Hannah was quite willing that 
159 


160 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Mollie should carry on her home missionary 
work without asking her help. Her own 
conscience was clear of any charge of 
neglect in the case of these particular 
freshmen, who would naturally prefer the 
comfort to be found in the Thursday even- 
ing prayer meetings to any consolation she 
could have given. When she thought of 
them at all, she thought as one thinks of 
many an unknown girl who appears at rare 
intervals in the eddies of the swiftest cur- 
rents of college life. At midyears, Mollie 
told her they had both failed in mathematics 
and English, those two severest tests of a 
freshman’s habit of thought, and that Jenny 
was ill. It was feared that she might need 
to go home. 

Several weeks of senior responsibihty 
followed before Hannah met the younger 
girl in the village. It was a wet day early 
in March. Water stood in the icy streets 
and gathered in slush at the edge of snow 
patches. Through the drenching mist a 
blurred form took shape, and Charlotte’s 
round, damp face emerged from the clouds. 


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with Charlotte’s usually tight curls now 
drooping in stiff obtuse angles about her 
ears. Her friendly smile was so nearly 
wistful that Hannah stopped. 

“Sorry we ’re going in opposite directions, 
Miss Johnson. How is your sister coming 
on?” 

“She’s gone.” 

“Gone? Left college, you mean?” 

“Yes’m. She was in the hospital, and 
now she’s taken her things and gone home.” 

“Just lately?” 

“Today. Just now. I live alone, now 
Won’t you come in?” 

There was again a hint of wistfulness 
in the studied politeness of this inquiry. 
Hannah looked across at the bare walls of 
the EHot, where the ancient woodbine 
which lent the only line of grace to the 
ugly house, now shook the moisture from 
its long, leafless sprays. None of Hannah’s 
friends had lived here; she did not know 
that life could be as bright and joyous be- 
hind those plain walls as at Norumbega or 
College Hall. 


162 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“I should like to go in,” she said, sur- 
prising herself, “that is, if you are on your 
way home.” 

It was a plain little room to which Char- 
lotte led her guest. She explained that 
she had just moved into it from the larger 
one that she and Jenny had shared together, 
so her things were not all out; but she had 
hung the pictures to make it cosy. Her 
pride in these possessions touched Hannah’s 
art-loving heart. She had noticed them on 
entering the room, for they hung at waver- 
ing angles against the wall, — unframed 
cardboards on which were mormted, with 
shiny evidence of mucilage, woodcuts of 
young and well-dressed ladies listening, in 
garden or ballroom, to the words of atten- 
tive young gentlemen in elegant attire. 
Charlotte hastened to call her visitor’s 
attention to her one framed picture of a 
sad looking young girl in black. Charlotte 
said that her Sunday-school teacher had 
given it to her when she left home, and it 
was called, “Alone, or, the Soul’s Awaken- 
ing.” 


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163 


“It was very good of her to give you 
something for your room. Were you fond 
of her?” asked Hannah. It was impossible 
not to fall into a softened mood before 
these evidences of commonplace sentimen- 
tality. 

“Oh, yes! She’s just lovely, almost as 
lovely as Miss Maynard, but not as pretty. 
She was the bookkeeper at the factory.” 

“Was she? She must have been clever 
at figures. What sort of a factory was it?” 

“Oh, the shirt factory — where we 
worked.” 

“Oh, yes — no — I didn’t know — ’’Han- 
nah stopped. 

“I forgot,” exclaimed Charlotte. “Talk- 
ing about her made me say it, — and you 
seem almost like Miss Maynard, and I 
thought you knew, somehow. Well, it’s 
true. Jenny and I, we worked in the 
factory ever since I got through grammar 
school. But that ’ s a secret. Y ou must n’t 
teU.” Charlotte smiled mysteriously. 

“No, indeed, of course not. It’s an 
interesting secret. Do you want to tell me 
the rest?” 


164 


WELLESLEY STORLES 


“Why, there isn’t any more.” 

“But where were you prepared?” 

“Well, you see, we went to night school, 
because Miss Mahoney — she’s the one who 
gave me that picture- — she wanted us to. 
And the night school teacher told us if we 
kept on, mebbe we ’d get to college, some 
day. She’d been to Wellesley, and we 
thought it must be lovely.” 

“Yes, we all used to think that.” 

“Yes, you know. And then the teachers 
at night school got a rich lady to give us 
money for a year at college. So we stayed 
out of the factory two years and went to 
high school, and that’s how we came. It 
is just like a story here, I think.” 

There was a pause before Hannah found 
anything to say. Her mind was full of 
things she could not say. 

“I should think you’d find the work 
here rather hard.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. The dean says my 
preparation was bad, and Jenny thought 
the work was hard. Why, she cried ’most 
all the time. But I don’t mind much. I 


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165 


dropped English, and Math, too, so I could 
tutor with Miss Maynard. And I passed 
history. Only think! A whole three-hour 
course! Jenny didn’t. She cried so she 
couldn’t pass a thing. But I passed Bible, 
too. I just love history, don’t you? All 
about people?” 

“I can’t say I love it very hard,” re- 
sponded Hannah. “Was Jenny ill because 
she cried? ” 

“Yes, and they sent her home. They 
let me stay because I promised to tutor 
hard, and — and I cried because I wanted 
to stay. College is lovely and so are the 
girls.” 

“They are not lovely at all,” said Hannah, 
realizing that there had been quite enough 
weak sentiment expressed. “They’re a 
very good sort, on the whole, but there are 
plenty of freaks, you know.” 

“What’s a freak?” 

“Oh, just a freak. Not like ordinary 
girls — ” 

She broke off, awkwardly conscious of 
the odd figime before her. 


166 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


‘‘I guess that was what Charlie meant 
when he told me to do just what other girls 
did. And I’ve done it. He said he didn’t 
want them to think I was queer. I’m go- 
ing to have a dress like that one you wore 
in the play, after I’ve gone to work again 
next summer.” 

“Glad you admire my costumes, but that 
was a borrowed one. I hope Charlie will 
like the gown. He is your — ?” 

“Why, we’re engaged! He’s foreman 
in the factory, and he gets dandy wages. 
That’s his picture on the bureau.” 

Hannah looked, but found it impossible 
to comment on Charlie’s beauty. She com- 
promised. 

“Your names are a good deal alike.” 

“Yes. Ain’t it wonderful! But he calls 
me Cherry because — well, it’s different, 
you know.” Charlotte blushed a moment 
in silence; then she said: 

“Nobody knows but you and Miss May- 
nard.” 

“All right,” said Hannah. “You are a 
little trump to tell me. Mollie never said 


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167 


a word. We don’t suspect how romantic 
our neighbors are, here at college.” 

“Oh, it’s college that’s romantic, not me. 
But tell me, is Miss Maynard engaged?” 

“No — not yet. Why?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s been so good 
about Charlie. And she didn’t tell?” 

“No.” 

“Not anything?” 

“No, except that you were tutoring. I 
was glad of that, because Mollie needs the 
money.” 

“Money! Why she doesn’t get paid, 
does she? Is it like being on the faculty?” 

Hannah’s thought groped an instant be- 
fore it fastened on Mollie’s secret. 

“Oh — yes — it’s something like that. 
The more pupils she has, the more money 
she gets, you see. Good-bye. I’m glad I 
came. May I come again?” 

“What a funny question! I’m real glad, 
too. I guess I was a little lonesome after 
Jenny went. Good-bye!” she called from 
the big porch, where she stood watching 
the flying golf cape of her late guest, until 


168 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


it vanished in the fog. Then she ran con- 
tentedly down to the basement to do the 
daily hour of domestic work which entitled 
her to board in this particular house at 
unusually low rates. 

Charlotte always enjoyed this break in 
the day’s routine of hooks and study. She 
liked to feel that when she was chattering 
over the potatoes, or washing the dishes 
with the other girls, she was really helping 
to “make the college go.” It was like 
attending to your own little section of 
machinery at the factory. Charlotte did 
not understand her housemates very well; 
they seemed strangely concerned about 
their lessons, yet most of them seemed not 
to have conditions. Their love of fun and 
their bewildering propensity to practical 
jokes astonished Charlotte, when she re- 
membered how doggedly she had seen these 
same girls studjdng. She was as unappre- 
ciative of their cleverness as she was of the 
dowdiness of some among them, or the 
careful tidiness of others who never looked 
shabby. She never thought of them, or of 


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169 


herself, as poor, because the life among 
them was so much richer than that in the 
shabby little house near the factory where 
she and Jenny had boarded for two and a 
half dollars a week, with an irate aunt. 

This afternoon when the other girls had 
left her to finish her delayed work alone, 
her thoughts travelled persistently after 
her sister. Jennie would be much happier 
at home and she would go back to the fac- 
tory after a time. A lump would come in 
Charlotte’s throat when she thought of the 
strange girl in the place next to Jenny’s, 
and of Charlie walking jauntily down the 
room in his shirt sleeves. She knew how 
he would have smiled at her, and then pre- 
tended not to notice her again. At such 
moments Charlotte heard the whirr and 
rumble of the heated shop, and forgot all 
about her dream of beautiful, care-free 
college girls. 


in 


W HEN the spring vacation was 
over and Charlotte had come 
back to her single room after 
a week at home with Jenny and Charlie, 
the weary homesickness fell upon her more 
often. She began to feel shut in — away 
from everybody. The dream had turned 
around; and sometimes the murky streets 
and the free comradeship of hearty-voiced 
girls and young men seemed more to be 
desired than a family of good-natured stu- 
dents who talked among themselves of 
things that coidd not concern her. Char- 
lotte had begun to notice that her ready 
talk received little attention and infrequent 
response; she noticed that nobody ever 
knocked at her door. All the time the 
teachers were advising her to work harder, 
and the dean had told her that there would 
be no opportunity for her to make up the 
work another year, and that, because of 
170 


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171 


her failure, the right of certification had 
been withdrawn from the school that sent 
her. The significance of this announce- 
ment did not trouble Charlotte much, but 
the dean’s face and voice had made her 
want to cry. She was determined to think 
as little as possible of lessons, and to enjoy 
living out her story. There were many 
exhilarating,happy days. When the brown 
things turned green, and grassy slopes 
were sprinkled with new shadows, and the 
rhododendrons leaned over the lake to 
double their heavy red blooms, Charlotte 
felt herself in Paradise. The mysterious 
preparation for Tree Day filled her with 
wonder. There were to be dances on the 
campus in the afternoon light, and her 
classmates had been divided into groups, 
in order that they might be trained for the 
different dances. She couldn’t do the steps 
as the others did theirs; she was disap- 
pointed when it was decreed that she 
should be taken from the dance, and put 
into a squad of girls who were told to 
“stand round and look pretty during the 


172 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


dances.” Even the comfort of this insidi- 
ous compliment vanished while she watched 
the fascinating movement of the girl who 
was to do alone a part of the most difficult 
figure. Charlotte thought how the hun- 
dreds of spectators on the green hillside 
would applaud the girl’s bewitching grace. 

Tree Day dawned clear, as Tree Day 
always dawns. But alas for Wellesley tra- 
ditions! No sooner had the freshmen 
marched sweetly and proudly forth, in all 
the gaudy splendor of a mardigras proces- 
sion, than sudden twilight fell upon hills 
and hollows, and the splashing rain scat- 
tered some twelve hundred women in a 
mad rush for the nearest shelter. A 
motley collection of scampering figures it 
was, faculty, alumnae, and students, figures 
in academic cap and gown racing with 
long-stepping Japanese maidens who, a 
moment before had been mincing along 
with fluttering fans. Mardigras jesters 
ran with trustees, and jeering sophomores 
in fantastic garb chased the crestfallen 
freshman aids and orators, whose faces 


TREE DAY 







I 




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173 


were as pathetic as their damp muslin, into 
the shelter of the thronged College Hall 
corridors. When it was too late for the 
fun to be continued, the sun shone again, 
and Charlotte, still happy in her bedraggled 
gaudiness, wandered off toward Stone Hall 
and the border of the lake. She bailed out 
a, boat that was locked to the little pier, 
and seated herself in the far end to think 
and wonder. Her mind was full of the 
pageant she had seen, and, for a brief 
moment, been a part of. The late sun 
shining warmly on dripping leaves and 
meadow grass quickened her thought of 
how it would have looked finally — that 
winding procession across the smooth 
campus, of black-gowned seniors, and 
Japanese juniors, and farcical sophomores 
caricatiu'ing the departments of the college, 
and, last of all, that long, handsome line of 
freshmen, in their rich and sparkling cos- 
tumes of every imaginable design. She 
drew forth a block of paper and a ten-cent 
fountain pen that she had hastily borrowed 
at college, and wrote to Charlie just how 


174 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


she thought it would have been. It 
seemed unkind, besides spoiling the story, 
to tell him that there had never been any 
such procession, so she wrote on enthusi- 
astically, of the bewildering beauty of a 
real Wellesley Tree Day. The dances 
were the very nicest part of it, she said, 
and the freshman dances were the prettiest 
of all. They did it out of doors on the 
green grass at the foot of the hill, and 
there was a figure where one girl had to 
dance alone before all the people. She 
danced forward and backward, and she 
turned round and round slowly in her long 
yellow skirts, and everybody clapped and 
cheered, and the girl, she got so hot, and 
dizzy, and flurried, with all the people 
watching, but she was happier than she 
had ever been before in her life. And 
could he guess who that pretty dancing 
girl was? Because if he couldn’t, she 
was not any more his loving Uttle Cherry. 

The next morning brought a settled rain 
and the customary appointments. There 
was the usual pushing line in the post-office 


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175 


corridor jiist before nine o’clock, and the 
usual patient, but far from silent crowd 
surging about the elevator. An excite- 
ment at the ‘‘Lost and Found” bulletin 
board worked its noisy way to the outskirts 
of the throng. There was a shrill laugh, 
then the laughter of many voices, then the 
eager, explosive questioning of many more. 
Charlotte, who had succeeded in zigzagging 
her way back from the post-office, now 
forced herself farther into the mass of curi- 
ous girls. The sudden movement of a 
fresh dozen into the elevator brought her 
nearer the board, just as a gleeful junior 
leaped upon a bench and began reading in 
clear tones the placard that now stared 
Charlotte in the face. 

FOUND! 

ITie only authorized version of 
1902 ’s Tree day 

A TRUTHFUL ACCOUNT OF THE FESTIVAL 

By applying at 156 C. H. 

Loving Little Cherry 
May recover a letter to 
Her Dear Darling Charlie 
No questions asked 


176 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


The peal of derisive laughter had hardly 
diminished when the nine o’clock bell sent 
most of the students hustling over the 
stairs. Charlotte was too stupified to listen 
to their comments. She waited for the ele- 
vator and tried to step into it with a smile 
on her face, as though she, too, were 
amused at the placard. “Its a manufact- 
ured joke,” somebody was saying. “No 
college girl would be freak enough to write 
such a silly letter.” 

“Who lives in 156?” 

The question startled Charlotte, she did 
not hear the answer given in the corridor, 
as the elevator door was slammed at the 
third floor. She went up till she could go 
no farther, and when she stepped out at 
the fifth floor, she promptly walked down 
stairs, her thoughts still in commotion. 
She hated them. She hated them every 
one. 

Arrived at the second floor, she peered 
fiutively over the stairway. There it hung, 
the cruel placard, mocking the silence of 
the place. One or two stragglers passed 


SUBMERGED 


177 


on, to the post-office. She waited till they 
came back and disappeared down the cor- 
ridor, before she ventimed as far as the first 
landing. Then she sped down the stairs, 
sprang across to the bench beneath the 
boards, and leaped up to snatch the card 
from under the one glittering thumb tack. 
As she stepped down with the placard in 
her hand, she found herself face to face 
with Hannah Moore. 

‘‘Who did it?” panted Charlotte. 

Hannah stopped before this sudden vis- 
ion of fury holding out before her a placard 
too large for concealment. It labelled her. 

“Give it to me!” demanded Hannah. 
She slipped it from the unresisting fingers, 
and scanned it more carefully. Rage filled 
her. She knew who lived in 156. She 
looked again at Charlotte. The blazing 
eyes were dimmed by tears now, and the 
trembling lips tried in vain to frame some 
words. She pointed mutely at the board. 

“Come with me,” Hannah said. She put 
her arm about the girl and led her away 
toward her own room. 


178 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Nobody shall know,” she said fiercely, 
“and I’m going to whip the girl who did it. 
She wouldn’t have done it if she had known 
you.” 

“They — all — laughed,” whispered Char- 
lotte, “and they’d laugh — just the same — 
if — they knew it was me. They’d call me 
— freak.” She shook over the word. 

“No, they wouldn’t laugh if they knew. 
They’d more likely cry,” returned Hannah, 
who felt a little queer round the eyes and 
nose. “See, here’s Mollie,” she said, as 
she opened the door. 

Mollie held out a hand. Charlotte flung 
her arms about MoUie’s neck, and Mollie’s 
comforting arms closed round her. 

“She’ll tell you about it,” said Hannah, 
answering her roommate’s glance. “Look! 
I’m going to take this with me.” She held 
out the card, then walked out, and angrily 
up stairs to 156. 

“John Milton,” she said, appearing un- 
ceremoniously to Gwendolen, “you ’re the 
meanest girl I know. Give me that letter!” 

She held the placard ominously before 


SUBMERGED 


179 


the culprit, who grinned with exasperating 
coolness. 

“Well, Cherry! Hello, Cherry! glad to 
make your acquaintance. Oh, my uncle ! 
I little thought of convicting the admirable 
Miss Moore. Charlie must have his letter, 
must he? But look here, Hannah — no 
fooling — tell me about it. You’re not a 
freshman, you know, and besides, this isn’t 
your writing.” 

She produced some crxunpled sheets of 
paper. 

“I found it last night by the lake. I’ll 
read it to you, if you want to see the entire 
deliciousness of the joke.” 

“I see enough, thank you. Please give 
me the letter.” 

“Will you take it now, or wait till you 
get it? It’s not yours.” 

“ You intimated on this delicate adver- 
tisement of yours, that you would ask no 
questions.” 

“ Oh, come. Nan. Do*n’t get sarcastic. 
What’s the row? I never saw you so dumb 
about a joke.” 


180 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“You are perfectly contemptible. If you 
give me that letter, I’ll return it to the 
owner.” 

“Tell me who she is, and I’ll take it my- 
self.” 

Hannah’s wrathful, commanding face was 
too much for Johnnie. She cared more for 
Hannah’s opinion than for that of the whole 
college. The joke had begun to lose its 
savor. She flung the letter down. Hannah 
picked it up and moved toward the door. 

“You needn’t get so mad,” began John- 
nie. Her plump face drooped in all its 
lines, and the yellow hair was toppling. 
Hannah turned. She had never seen John- 
nie look so distressed. 

“Don’t you see how mean you’ve been? 
If we were men I should want to flog you.” 

John got up and stood at the window, 
regarding the tower of the paint mill rising 
above the distant trees. 

“I will tell you who wrote that letter,” 
continued Hannah, in an even voice that 
made Johnnie wince. “It was Charlotte 
Johnson — one of those freshmen freaks 


SUBMERGED 


181 


with the crocheted collars. You’ve made 
fun of her already. She worked in a fac- 
tory nearly all her life before she came 
here. She ’d never seen anything beautiful 
before. She’s engaged, as much as a child 
can be, to the man she calls Charlie, and 
he is a factory hand, too. I suppose she 
writes to him about everything that hap- 
pens — weak, sentimental letters.” 

Johnnie turned. 

“Well, she writes lies, sometimes.” 

“ How do you know?” 

^‘That letter.” 

Hannah read it without further hesita- 
tion. Her eyes filled with tears. 

“You see,” said Johnnie, “that’s why I 
advertised it. “It’s such a lie. ’Twould 
serve any girl right to be caught. That 
kid freak dancing!” 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” 

Johnnie gulped, and blushed honestly. 

‘‘1 am,” she said, and stalked to the win- 
dow again. 

“Don’t you see?” continued Hannah. 
“She had never dreamed till yesterday 


182 


WELLESLEY STOEIES 


what Tree Day could be, and then, when 
it was spoiled, she had to tell him about it 
as she thought it would be. And the 
dancing — that’s just a part of her childish 
vanity. She is weak and vain, and deceit- 
ful, too, but she deceives herself most of 
all.” 

“Does she know?” Johnnie tossed over 
her shoulder. 

“Yes, she does.” 

There was a pause. 

“I found her tearing it off the board 
when no one was looking. And now she 
is in my room, crying as though she would 
never stop.” 

“Does she know I live here?” 

“No! You can tell her, if you want her 
to know it — Johnnie,” continued Hannah, 
pausing again at the door, “I’m terribly 
sorry. I hked you, you know.” 

She went out. John thoughtfully re- 
garded the distant tower. Then she blew 
her nose hard, made a dab at her eyes, and 
flvmg out of the room. She tramped down- 
stairs to the basement, and through the 


SUBMERGED 


183 


express-room door, and started off across 
country. She was not seen again till 
dinner time. 

Meanwhile, 156 was beleaguered by 
Johnnie’s interested classmates; and John- 
nie’s popular freshman roommate, who had 
seen the letter and thought she recognized 
the labored Spencerian hand, explained 
that Cherry must be one of those queer 
Johnson freaks, and the letter was gone, 
and she didn’t know where Johnnie was. 
She was exceedingly popular that day. 
And she never understood why her room- 
mate told her fiercely to “shut up,” when 
she began relating her accormt of the sport 
after dinner. Johnnie said nothing about 
the interview she had had with Charlotte 
at the Eliot that afternoon; but she never 
permitted any allusion to Charlotte Johnson 
as the author of the now detested letter. 
Nor did she vouchsafe any explanation of 
her avoidance of Hannah Moore, although 
her roommate plainly saw that there was 
some trouble between these two friends. 

Charlotte herself was more miserable 


184 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


than she had ever been before. The girls 
looked at her in a queer way, and some of 
her classmates tried pointedly to be kind 
to her. That was hardest of all, for she 
knew they were kind only because they 
had heard about that fatal letter. Even 
the Sweet ministrations of Molhe and Han- 
nah failed to comfort her, and the some- 
what awkward attentions of Miss Gwen- 
dolen Milton, whom she thought she had 
forgiven, made her long to be alone with 
her unhappiness. The lovely year of being 
a college girl was almost over, and she had 
spoiled it by writing out her dream to 
Charlie. They had called her a freak. 
That must be what she was. Perhaps that 
was why she had not been invited to the 
parties in the spring. And she had told a 
lie in the letter — about the dancing — and 
Hannah and Mollie knew it, even if the 
others did not. She had not the courage 
to stay. The first days of examination were 
spent in tearful longing to be away; and 
then Mollie helped her pack her few treas- 
ures, and went with her to Boston. I 


SUBMERGED 


185 


think that was almost worth the unhappi- 
ness of the term’s experience to Charlotte. 
She promised to write to Mollie and teU 
her all about Jenny and the factory. For 
she meant to go back to work until she 
and Charlie could save enough money to 
be married. 

“And I shall remember you always, 
always,” she said, impetuously, “for you 
are the best part of the story, you know.” 

Mollie and Hannah talked it all over 
together, when their sad-faced little friend 
had slipped away. Hannah was still hurt 
and disappointed at Johnnie’s thoughtless 
action. 

“She ought to have thought,” she de- 
clared, when Mollie upbraided her for being 
relentless. “And if she had been the girl 
I took her for, she would have thought. 
It’s that wrong instinct I can’t stand in a 
girl I like.” 

It was not until Hannah had been an 
alumna nearly a year, and Johnnie Milton 
had doggedly plunged along in the path of 
rectitude all that time, that the bitterness 


186 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


died away between them. The next Tree 
Day found them friends. 


COLLEGE BUILDINGS 











A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 





A Lyrical Interlude 



OU are the only woman I know 
who” — 


An emphatic knock brought 


to a sudden end Rebecca’s adroit flattery. 
Miss Haviland, moving to the door, smiled 
over her shoulder. 

“It’s just as well not to waste that com- 
pliment. Keep it for someone who will 
believe it. This must he one of our 
Rhymsters.” 

It was Betty Smith. Rebecca scowled, 
because it was always Betty who inter- 
rupted her talks with Miss Haviland. 
Betty greeted hostess and fellow-student 
with her usual good nature; she frankly 
liked Miss Haviland and was too simple 
natured to think of herself in connection 
with Rebecca’s scowl. Moreover, she had 
weightier cares on her naind. 

“Is this all we are to have of the Rhym- 


189 


190 


WELLESLEY STOEIES 


ster’s Club?” she asked, as she gave a folded 
sheet into Miss Haviland’s outstretched 
hand. ‘‘Because I came to glean much 
poetry.” 

“ Does that mean you expect none from 
present company?” asked Rebecca quickly. 
“Miss Haviland might resent that.” 

“Less than Miss Calloway,” responded 
their hostess, who was the founder of the 
club and the only poet in it. “You were 
good to come tonight, Betty — and bring a 
poem, when you ought to be writing edi- 
torials.” 

“Oh, I shall write editorials all night,” 
returned the editor-in-chief, with the calm 
despair with which one speaks of shopping 
all day in Boston. “And I shouldn’t have 
come tonight if I weren’t on another mad 
hunt for material. I haven’t a line of de- 
cent verse to send with the Magazine 
tomorrow.” 

“Here is Rebecca with an unfailing 
supply.” 

Rebecca Calloway winced at Miss Havi- 
land’s home thrust, but she stood her 
ground. 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 191 


“Yes,” she said at once, “you may have 
the sonnet sequence I brought tonight — if 
you think it’s good enough, Betty.” 

The editorial brows puckered. 

“No sonnet sequence is good enough,” 
came the austere reply. “And besides, 
we ’ve had your verse for two months now. 
I want something different — something 
better than anything we’ve had. Your 
sonnets about the cry of the people, and 
my cradle songs aren’t any good. I want 
a real poem — just a little one.” 

The wail came from the editor’s heart. 
She was too deeply sunken in discourage- 
ment to note the glint of pain and anger in 
Rebecca Calloway’s gray-green eyes. Re- 
becca’s voice summoned her to a conscious- 
ness of her own words. 

“If you’re trying to hunt down a poet, 
you’d better follow the scent of your 
little new Rhymster!” 

There was bitterness in the tone. Before 
Betty Smith could reply. Miss HavUand 
came to the rescue. 

^‘Yes, Betty, where is little Miss Clay 
tonight?” 


192 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“ I don’t know. You know I never know 
anything the day before the Magazine goes. 
But I told Edith Talcott to bring her. I 
hope her little verses won’t make me sorry 
I recommended her.” 

“We must try not to criticise her work 
severely at first.” 

“Whether she can make rhymes or not,” 
continued Rebecca, “she will spoil oiu* con- 
genial company. We are all so used to 
each other that we could say anything we 
pleased.” 

“It will take more than Janet Clay to 
silence us,” said Betty. “And in a few 
weeks she will voice more heresies than we 
confess to in a year.” 

Edith Talcott came from Stone Hall with 
a poem, but without Miss Clay, whom she 
had left writing in a feverous effort to fin- 
ish her poem in time for this her first meet- 
ing at the club. Two other members made 
the circle so nearly complete that the 
meeting opened, with Rebecca Calloway as 
reader for the evening. The light that fell 
over her shoulder upon the papers in her 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 193 


hand, gleamed also upon the smooth hlue- 
black hair parted above the white brow, 
and glanced across the silk of her dark 
bodice. The girls said Rebecca Calloway 
parted her hair because everyone else wore 
hers turned loosely back from the forehead; 
but the real reason was that a white part 
was more becoming to Rebecca’s fine mar 
donna face. She was more than graceful, 
and something other than beautiful — she 
was adorable as she sat there where the 
shadows played about the shifting expres- 
sions of her sensitive face. And her voice, 
full of feeling, but guarded by careful re- 
straint that hinted of unsounded tones be- 
hind, loitered over the lines of the first 
poem until she forced the sympathetic 
attention of the critic. For whatever her 
own opinion of the verses might be, Rebecca 
had the good taste to present the contribu- 
tion of each number of the club as flatter- 
ingly as possible. This kindly effort some- 
times forced into a poem more sentiment 
than it would hold. Tonight the reader 
was puzzled by the first Elizabethan lyric 


194 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


she read. She read it hard and solemnly. 
When the end was reached — 

*‘I suppose it’s a song,” she said, ‘‘since 
that’s the subject for the evening, but 
what does it mean?” 

She looked at Betty heedlessly, for she 
knew the handwriting to be Betty’s. The 
club remained silent and tried to think it 
out luitU Betty Smith gurgled 

“It’s di funny poem! Let me read it.” 
She planted her short figvire near the 
light and began to read in quick, sharp 
tones the verses which were quite devoid 
of sentiment, but which, under the roll of 
her nimble tongue began to take on the 
lilt of an Irish jig. 

“Now, you needn’t criticise this particu- 
lar Elizabethan lyric,” said the editor, as 
she took her old place on the couch. “I 
wrote it to-day between dinner bells just 
because business demanded my presence 
here tonight, and I was ashamed to come 
without a contribution.” 

They were all laughing uproariously at 
the song and at the sudden turn of senti- 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 195 


ment — all but Rebecca, who was silently 
looking over the next poem in wrathful 
determination to find out in advance 
whether it was funny. It seemed to be a 
harmless concoction of birds and hearts and 
lady’s eyes and hawthorn blooms. She was 
waiting for quiet in the room when a timid 
knock summoned Miss Haviland to the 
door. 

“Miss Clay!” she said, “We are all glad 
to have you, for we feared you were not 
coming.” 

Little Janet Clay — they all called her 
little because she looked frail — came in 
quietly and with less embarassment than 
her new companions had anticipated. 

“My song made me late,” she said. “I 
suppose it’s because I’m new and nervous. 
I wrote it last week, but I did it all over 
again to-night. Is the meeting at an end?” 

She handed a single sheet of paper to 
Miss Haviland. 

“No indeed. You’ve missed the joke of 
the evening, that’s aU.” 

While the new member was being intro- 


196 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


duced, the reader for the evening slipped 
her lyric into the little pile of unsigned 
verses, so that no one but the writer should 
know when it was read. Then the poena 
about the hawthorn bush was read, and 
criticised for faulty metre. 

‘‘I knew there was an extra foot in 
there,” confessed the writer, at length, 
“but that’s what I meant so I had to say 
it. And you can slide over it quickly.” 

They were obliged to laugh at Edith 
Talcott’s defence, although they denounced 
this repetition of her unconquerable weak- 
ness. They all gave a little sigh of relief 
and satisfaction as the opening lines of the 
third poem hushed their laughter into si- 
lence. In the stately rhythm and rich 
figures Betty Smith recognized the touch 
of the club’s poet, and Rebecca, to whom 
the handwriting was familiar, let her won- 
dering voice glide deliciously over the 
words. Before the end was reached. Miss 
Haviland became suddenly busy with the 
teacups — a sign to the uncritical that the 
poem was hers. There was a slight pause 
when Rebecca’s voice fell. 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 197 

“I ’m sure no one can find fault with 
that,” she said, with appreciative solemnity. 

‘‘It sounds like Ben Jonson,” ventured 
Janet Clay. 

“I suspect some of the words are bor- 
rowed from that gentleman,” returned Miss 
HavUand. “ But he never would have been 
guilty of some of those forced figures.” 

“No,” said Janet innocently, “he never 
would have talked about the ‘fragrance of 
sunlit marble.’” 

“But to leave that out would be to spoil 
three lines of the poem. It is a true 
phrase,” exclaimed Rebecca warmly. 

“Yes, but not conventional, and too sen- 
suous for the rest,” persisted Miss Clay — 
then as she saw the smiles — “Whose is it, 
yours ?” she asked Rebecca. “I really like 
it ever so much, all but that.” 

When Miss Haviland confessed her 
authorship Janet was still unabashed, for 
her simple thought found no appalling 
significance in the fact that she had con- 
demned an ill-filling line in the verses of 
“a faculty.” Yet she trembled a little at 


198 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


what might be said of her own work. She 
had an affection for this little poem al- 
though she knew its weak words and 
clumsy emphasis better than another 
could. It was read, at last, and everybody 
looked astonished, and nobody spoke. 

“Shall I read it again?” asked Rebecca. 

It covered only a page, but the Rhymsters 
listened delightedly to the second reading. 
Was it Rebecca’s or Janet Clay’s? most of 
them wondered. Betty Smith knew that 
although the sentiment and some of the 
figmes might have come from the reader 
herself, Rebecca Calloway could not have 
handled so delicately the dainty conceit 
that wound and unwound its meaning in 
song-hke melody. 

“That’s the lyric I came to find,” said 
the editor. “May I have it for the Maga- 
zine?'’ 

She turned unhesitatingly to Janet who 
colored with nervous pleasure. 

“Yes, if you like it. Do you reaUy like 
it?” 

“Shouldn’t ask for it if I didn’t,” was 
the reply. 


A LYEICAL INTERLUDE 199 


The Rhymsters were exceedingly chary 
of commendation, but they had the im- 
pulse to respond to Betty Smith’s un- 
stinted approval. The one member who 
felt obliged to sustain her reputation as 
critic by faintly condemning an imperfect 
rhyme, was promptly told that she didn’t 
know assonance when she heard it. There 
had been doubt about admitting Miss Clay, 
and many differences of opinion about her 
power of conforming to the customs of the 
art-loving little group who took themselves 
seriously in spite of the jibes of the college. 
Betty Smith alone had seen any of Janet 
Clay’s verses, but the editor’s judgment 
was to be trusted, however wilfully fan- 
tastic her own contributions might be, so 
little Miss Clay had been invited to come 
and bring a lyric as nearly Elizabethan as 
possible. They all had so much encomage- 
ment to give her, and they found so many 
genuine Elizabethan songs by which to 
test the lilt of hers, that two of the even- 
ing’s contributions must remain unread. 
Rebecca explained that hers was too long 


200 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


to read anyway, and was not strictly a 
song at all — just a sequence of sonnets on 
friendship modelled after the Shakespearean 
form. The girls smiled at this, when they 
dispersed, for Rebecca Calloway’s poems on 
friendship were almost as numerous as her 
intimate friends, and her sonnets were 
invariably Shakespearean. They always 
admired Rebecca more than they trusted 
her. She remained to-night to finish her 
interrupted sentence to Miss Haviland, for 
she saw Betty Smith tuck Janet Clay under 
her arm as if she meant to give herself 
the pleasme of a quick walk to Stone 
Hall before beginning her midnight vigil 
of writing editorials and punctuating, and 
cutting yards of copy. 

The appearance of the Magazine fi- 
nished table talk for at least one dinner 
each month. Everybody read and com- 
mented freely upon the poor taste of the 
editors in pubhshing this or that. Any 
rare indication of fun in a Magazine story 
was greeted with applause, but the verse re- 
ceived usually with perfect justice, the loud 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 201 


jeers or the silent contempt of the college 
public. Betty Smith, believing that the 
taste of the student body was right, in 
the main, even when it might be unin- 
telligent, foresaw disapprobation for her 
November niunber. There was no fun in 
it. The two longer stories ended tragi- 
cally, and the pages bearing the “Critical 
Estimate of C3u-ano de Bergerac” would 
remain uncut. She had given Janet’s love 
song a conspicuous position in the hope 
that those who were learning to skip the 
poetry would read it. They did read it, 
and they wished the tantalizing initials R. 
C. signed modesly at the end, might stand 
for something besides “Rhyming Clover.” 
A good many confessed to a toleration of 
the lines that was almost a liking, and 
straightway forgot all about them. Others 
became possessed by a literary curiosity that 
bombarded the Rhymsters with questions 
and bribes concerning the identity of the 
writer of the verses. But the club mem- 
bers held to their mutual agreement not to 
divulge the authorship of an R. C. poem. 


202 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


There were other members of the college, 
however, who had no doubt as to the poet. 
The sentiment was not unfamiliar, the 
treatment was conventional, the charm 
of the melody might mean that Rebecca 
Calloway had at last suddenly caught the 
grace and clarity without which her clever 
verse had seemed lifeless. Her friends had 
half expected her to learn this new touch; 
now her roommate, who was a prisoner 
in hospital when the Magazine appeared, 
boldly congratulated her. 

Dear Rebecca : — 

I always knew you could do something better 
than that lame verse you wrote last month. I like 
your love song. Do it some more and dedicate 
the next one to me. I shall be dead with this cold 
by that time. 

Thank the girls for the flowers and things. 

Nell. 

This note, while it hit Rebecca’s pride, 
was a good joke on Nell Colter. There 
would be some jibes when she should be 
well again, about her power of discrimina- 
tion. It seemed to her even a funnier joke 
when a classmate hailed her in the corridor. 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 203 


“Hello, Becky, your poem was dandy 
this time. Perseverance is all you need.” 

“Glad you liked it,” responded Rebecca, 
with an irony that was entirely lost upon 
her critic, already vanishing into a south 
room. 

There was no opportunity, and hardly 
any occasion for den3iing these and similar 
charges. When the poem was mentioned 
Rebecca wore an indifferently secretive 
smile, as Rhymster’s were supposed to do, 
and neither affirmed nor denied. She could 
not tell whose it was. The public might 
accuse any member of the club of having 
written the song. 

The thought of her imputed authorship 
might have vanished from Rebecca’s mind, 
had not a certain impulsive expression of 
delight in the poem reached her within the 
week. Betty Smith found her wrinkling 
her white brow a little petulantly over a 
sheet of the note paper covered with large, 
girlish handwriting. 

“What do you do when your freshmen 
friends admire your literary productions?” 
she asked, handing the note to Betty. 


204 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“They never do; I’m not appreciated,” 
returned Betty. 

This is what she read: 

My Dear Miss Calloway : — 

Do you mind having me tell you how very much 
I admired your poem in the Magazine? It was 
signed R, (7., but I am sure nobody but you could 
have written it. It sounds just like you. And 
besides, I have a wager on its being you, so you 
must not tell me it was n’t. 

You said I might come and see you. If I were n’t 
afraid I should like to bring some little verses of my 
own, so you might tell me how bad they are. Would 
you mind letting me know when ? I missed you in 
chapel this morning. 

Most sincerely yours, 

Ruth Bbown. 

^^That wouldn’t puzzle me long/’ said 
Betty. ‘‘1 didn’t know she was so silly.” 

^^She is not silly, she’s just a sweet- 
hearted child.” Rebecca smiled with ador- 
able sympathy as she threw the heavy 
braids behind her shoulder, and settled her- 
self against a cushion. 

^^What would you do?” she asked. 

^^I’d simply tell her that she’d lost her 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 205 


wager, and that I was neither court fool 
nor critic.” 

Rebecca looked meditative. 

“You’re so different, Betty. I don’t 
think you understand how that might hurt 
the child. And you must remember that 
if every Rhymster but one denies having 
written that absurd little song, the real 
author will be discovered.” 

“This letter will not be duplicated,” re- 
turned Betty coldly. “And if the real 
writer were discovered I should be very 
glad. I wanted her name with it, but she 
insisted on the club initials.” 

“I should like to write a lyric as good as 
that,” exclaimed Rebecca, with sudden hon- 
esty. “When I’ve revised one or two that 
I have on hand — ” 

“But how are you going to answer this 
letter?” demanded Betty. She feared the 
conversation might lead to another offer of 
manuscript which she could not accept. 

Rebecca’s fine face grew soft and her 
eyes dreamy. 

“I must answer it carefully, because I’m 


206 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


rather fond of Ruth, and I don’t want to 
hurt her. And if she really can write a 
little verse I ought not to discourage her. 
She’s very sensitive about what I say. I’d 
just tell her to come and see me. But isn’t 
it a joke that everybody thinks I wrote 
little Clay’s poem?” 

“It’s not a very funny one,” remarked 
Betty. 

“Your sense of hrnnor never did agree 
with mine, Betty. I’m going to keep all 
the notes of my fond friends and show 
them to Janet Clay, perhaps.” 

“She ought to have the credit for it now. 
She’s poor, and she will probably write for 
a living some day.” 

“This will teach her to sign her own 
name to things. I never write anony- 
mously, and I mean to write for a living, 
too, although I’m not likely to claim help 
on the ground of poverty. It’s the art 
that I care for.” 

Betty’s impatience over Rebecca’s slow- 
moving conscience drove her to Janet Clay 
with a brief story of the misplaced con- 


A LYKICAL INTERLUDE 207 

gratulations. Janet seemed indifferent to 
the praise of the poem; indeed her pleasure 
in it was shadowed by sudden distrust of it. 

“Do I really write the way she does?” 
cried the new poet in a wail of sincerity. 
It was the protest of the artist against the 
dilletante. There seemed to be no possible 
soothing reply to it. Betty left her with 
the consciousness that her half trust of 
Rebecca had not led her into any wise 
action on behalf of the injured person. 

Rebecca Calloway did not contribute any 
verse to the next Magazine. “She’s rest- 
ing on her laurels,” thought Betty, a little 
unkindly. Neither did she appear at the 
next meeting of the Rhymster’s Club. 
“It’s the only night this week I can see 
Ruth Brown,” she explained to Betty. 
“She’ll bring her verses, so I shall be 
gaining a proselyte for the club, as you 
did in the case of our new genius.” 

“Not exactly as I did,” returned Betty. 
“I’ll tell Miss Haviland why you couldn’t 
come.” 

This threat went home, although the 
scorn of the first sentence was wasted. 


208 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“You’ll do no such thing,” said Rebecca. 

“ Please don’t be unfair, Betty, where 
Miss HavUand is concerned.” 

“ I could cut you out in half an hoiu* if 
I set my mind to it,” was the reply, “but 
I like Miss Haviland too well to pay any 
attention to your manoeuvres.” 

Rebecca’s gentle gray eyes rested upon 
her reproachfully. 

“I wish you were not so sensible, Betty. 
If you were less sensible you would be 
less unkind. But you’re firing blank car- 
tridges,” she added, with one of her sudden 
turns of humor, that replaced the gray by 
a glint of green. “You know I despise 
what you call ‘manoeuvres.’” 

“You may not always know when you 
are manoeuvering,” came the steady reply, 
“but if you had a little of my colorless 
common sense you would be less self-de- 
ceived. Are you going to send your 
sonnet-sequence to-night?” 

“No. Miss Haviland has looked it over 
with me. But here’s a rondeau you might 
take. It won’t be so good as your little 
Clay’s.” 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 209 

“Perhaps not,” was Betty’s parting shot, 
“but no doubt the sentiment will be more 
profound.” 

Conversation with her next caller was 
much less perplexing. Rebecca hked Betty 
Smith, in spite of their incessant bickering, 
yet in her company she was often baffled 
and always on the defensive. With her 
other friends the talk went where she 
willed. Ruth Brown was clever and im- 
pulsive, but eager to follow Miss Callo- 
way’s lead. They talked of college verse 
and verse writers. Janet Clay was really 
the best rhymster in college. Miss Calloway 
said. And Ruth Brown glowed at this 
sign of magnanimity in the senior who 
was the most conspicuous writer among 
seven hundred girls. She was about to 
refer to the love song, when Miss Calloway 
made an allusion to the papers in Ruth’s 
book which brought a blush of confused 
delight into the girl’s face. Rebecca read 
the stilted verses respectfully and sympa- 
thetically, and after she had delicately sug- 
gested a few, very few, alterations, she 


210 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


read aloud to her admiring visitor, “ some 
things from Coleridge, for ear practice.” 
An hour later, when Ruth Brown was 
hurrying along through the frosty star-lit 
air with a village mate to whom she 
poured out a rapturous account of her 
visit, Rebecca was laughing jocosely with 
her roommate over certain crude and sen- 
timental verses written in a large school- 
girl hand. “She has brains, though,” was 
Rebecca’s final verdict, “and she’s good 
company. I shouldn’t mind seeing her 
in our society.” 

By the time Thanksgiving fell upon them 
with its busy two days’ respite from college 
duties, even Rebecca herself had forgotten 
about the love song until Professor Law- 
rence spoke of it. Every student of litera- 
ture prized the rare words of commendar 
tion from this professor as she prized no 
others. To Rebecca Calloway such words 
must be especially encouraging, for she was 
conscious that Miss Lawrence had not had 
real faith in her literary ability. They met 
near the palms one noon as the absent- 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 2U 


minded professor was slipping through the 
corridor. 

‘‘Miss Calloway,” she called, becoming 
suddenly conscious of a face she had wished 
to see. 

Rebecca straightened herself, and bent 
her small head in courteous inquiry. 

“Miss Calloway, that little song in the 
November Magazine was well done.” 

“As a Rhymster, I’m very glad you liked 
it. Miss Lawrence, but — ” 

“And there is a possibility that a literary 
opportunity may arise from it. One of 
your friends thought you might be willing 
to consider it — ” 

“I should be glad to do anything that 
you thought I might ventme to undertake,” 
responded Rebecca cautiously. 

“I have not always liked your work,” 
was the frank reply, “but I think you are 
beginning to shed your worst faults. A 
Boston publisher assured me the other day, 
when I showed him the little lyric, that he 
would like to look over some other things 
from the same source. Of course you may 


212 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


not have another inspiration immediately, 
but I advise you to try.” 

The professor named a magazine which 
made Rebecca’s eyes grow large with daz- 
zled hope. 

“Thank you,” she said, for want of other 
reply. 

“I will send you my card,” continued 
Miss Lawrence, “in order that your contri- 
bution may be recognized at once as that 
of the writer for the Wellesley Magazine.” 

“You are very kind. Miss Lawrence, but 
I am not sure — ” 

“Well, try,” said the professor, in a tone 
that revealed her wish to put an end to the 
conversation she had inaugurated. “And 
if you excel yourself, I think you may 
succeed.” 

Rebecca, quick to recognize the nervous- 
ness which alone signified Miss Lawrence’s 
desire to attend to other more important 
affairs, bowed her acknowledgment, and 
hastened on. She did not know in what 
direction, until she found herself the soli- 
tary occupant of a remote library alcove. 


A LYEIOAL INTERLUDE 213 


There she sat down and tried to think ; but 
instead of sober thoughts she had visions of 
Janet Clay, brown and frail of face, indiffer- 
ently or proudly disclaiming any tmther 
interest in her own production. “If she 
wanted credit for it, why didn’t she sign 
her own name, instead of leaving me in 
this awkward position?” questioned Re- 
becca impatiently. R. C., everybody knew 
might stand for any member of the Rhym- 



member might send 


MSS to a magazine. Such thoughts soon 
banished Janet’s image. In place of it 
Rebecca saw a glistening page of the East- 
ern adorned with neatly printed stanzas 
beneath which appeared, in conspicuous 
italics the writer’s name. Rebecca Gallo- 
way would look well in print. Then her 
pencil hovered over a blank sheet until it 
suddenly descended to write “A Song of 
Sorrow.” That should he the title of the 
new poem; it was odd, and it sounded well. 
This poem, moreover, must be one that 
would appeal to every reader, and its phras- 
ing must he simple, like Janet’s. Rebecca 


214 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


felt acquainted with sorrow, in her own 
home she had known its bitterness. 

“ Sorrow is a bird of night 

That flies on drooping wing 
Until he hovers close to earth 
Where all men hear him sing.” 

To make sorrow sing seemed a good touch; 
it was so unusual. And the lines seemed 
to be in Janet’s style. Rebecca now re- 
membered that love, in the other song, had 
been made to sing like a linnet she won- 
dered whether Janet had ever heard a lin- 
net sing. The next stanza was more diffi- 
cult, for the idea seemed complete in the 
first; but it was done in a few minutes and 
the third, fourth, and fifth succeeded before 
Rebecca went up stairs. It seemed to her 
as good as Janet’s little song. 

Later in the day when Miss Lawrence’s 
card of introduction had passed through the 
resident mail to her, Rebecca revised her 
poem and sent it off with a brief note of 
explanation to the editor of the Eastern. 
She was careful not to claim authorship of 
the love song. Miss Lawrence had kindly 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 215 


told her that the editor had expressed a 
willingness to see some of her work, so she 
ventured to enclose “A Song of Sorrow.” 

The afternoon’s absorbing interest and 
maddening glimpse of fame had stimulated 
Rebecca’s social instinct into an impetuous 
desire for admiration. After the letter was 
written she could not study. She threw 
aside notebooks and began to dress. “Go* 
ing to make a faculty call,” she explained 
to her roommate, as she fastened in place a 
gleaming pile of her long black hair. Obedi- 
ent to the imperious spirit within her, she 
put on a satin bodice that matched the 
ivory tint of her delicate face, and a black 
cloth skirt “to match my hair,” she thought 
as she smiled upon the brilliant black and 
white picture framed by her mirror. The 
only suspicion of color lurked in the glow- 
ing eyes. She was quite satisfied with 
Rebecca Calloway as she rustled through 
the long corridor to Miss Haviland’s door. 
It was her habit to seek Miss Haviland 
when she might be found alone, but tonight 
she was glad to remember was the regular 


216 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


at home. She found two strange freshmen 
whom her queenly entrance so dazzled that 
they were unable to speak. A senior friend 
who had just come from an art exhibit was 
telling stories of the funny speeches she 
had overheard, and the new instructor in 
biology was matching them with funnier 
speeches her students had made within the 
week. Rebecca, having won the privilege 
of preparing tea, soon became the centre of 
charm in the cosy room. Her buoyant 
spirit kept the thought tossing and chang- 
ing from one to another. Callers went and 
came, but Rebecca remained. Miss Havi- 
land had never seen her more beautiful. 
Her fascinating personality was irresistible. 
When they were alone, and Miss Haviland 
could ask the meaning of her extraordinary 
good spirits, Rebecca told her what she had 
done; how, at Miss Lawrence’s suggestion, 
she had sent some verses to the most con- 
servative magazine in the country; how 
Miss Lawrence’s commendation had turned 
her head ; and how she was already plan- 
ning to issue a book of verse before she had 


A LYEICAL INTERLUDE 217 


been out of college a year. Miss Haviland 
looked doubtful, but Rebecca could see the 
admiration that glowed in her face to belie 
the doubt in her voice. “You have no con- 
fidence in me at all,” exclaimed Rebecca, 
“but I shall dedicate my first book to you.” 

They parted regretfully after an exhila- 
rating half-hour of badinage. 

“Ten o’clock comes so soon when you 
are with someone you like,” said Rebecca, 
“I suppose I must not stay?” Miss Havi- 
land’s face spoke for her. “Of course not,” 
continued Rebecca hastily, “but I wish I 
could. I shall go home and write a sonnet 
on your tea.” 

Janet Clay’s interest in verse writing, 
during these autmnn weeks, was quite as 
active as Rebecca’s, although less prolific. 
Her distress over the imputed authorship 
of her little lyric, which seemed to her 
sensitive taste almost a condemnation of 
it, soon gave place to a desire to write 
something better. Betty Smith’s reports 
of commendatory remarks made by mem- 
bers of the Enghsh faculty to the editor 


218 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


of the Magazine, stimulated her zeal. She 
grew hot with desire to write, and with 
difficulty restrained her stub of a pencil 
while she worked problems in physics. 
She would not write another poem until 
her thought was complete. It completed 
itself unexpectedly one silvery morning 
while she walked across the wide space 
of the frosty meadow, and it sang to her 
till she found her own room where she 
sat down and wrote, in hasty scratches 
between long pauses, a mystical song of 
“The Deep Sea.” She read it through 
wonderingly, and then put it from her, 
not daring to trust her own joy in it. 
What could she know of poetry? Days 
of despondency followed. She did her 
regular work, and played basket-ball, and 
made fudge, and tried to forget that she 
was an author with an unpublished poem 
in her drawer. She would not give it to 
the Rymsters or to the Magazine. It was 
not milk for babes. At the end of a week 
she dared to look at it again. It was better 
than she had hoped; with a few richer 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 219 


words it would be good. She supplied 
them, and then, on a sudden determina- 
tion, sent the verses to the Eastern with 
a note which she tried to make properly 
dignified and indifferent. If he could not 
make use of the enclosed “Song of the 
Deep Sea,” would the editor be willing to 
consider other verse hy her? She had 
written a little for several Ohio papers, 
but her latest attempt had been a contri- 
bution to the Wellesley Magazine, a clip- 
ping from which she enclosed. Her note 
seemed excessively school-girlish, and she 
posted it quickly, while she had courage. 

Betty Smith, because of her critical 
sense and her persistent desire to bring to 
light that hidden, unostentatious literary 
ability which was almost invariably the 
best in the college, had won more of 
Janet’s confidence than any other had 
wished to gain. But Janet was still shy, 
even with Betty, about this dearest of all 
subjects. She could not speak to her of 
her own latest venture; she could only 
watch the mails in the silent moodiness 


220 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


and self-distrust which had succeeded to 
her grand air. Betty was accordingly sur- 
prised one evening when Janet came, with 
flushed face and strained voice, to thrust a 
letter into her hand. 

‘‘Read that!” she exclaimed. 

Betty read a letter from an editor of the 
Eastern to Miss Janet Clay. The editors 
had found pleasure in reading her poem of 
“The Deep Sea,” and would, under certain 
circumstances, be glad to give it a place in 
their magazine. They felt obliged, how- 
ever, to waive further consideration of the 
poem in question until its authorship should 
be Anally established. Since they had very 
recently received a contribution from a 
Wellesley student who was introduced by 
a member of the faculty as the writer of 
the “Love Song” enclosed also by Miss 
Clay, they were unable to make final 
arrangements with either contributor. A 
similarity of diction and melody in the 
two poems suggested identity of author- 
ship. They would be glad to hold the 
sea poem, pending the explanation which 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 221 

Miss Clay would doubtless be able to 
make as to these conflicting claims. 
Meanwhile, the editors remained — etc — . 

While Betty was still scowling over this 
puzzle, Janet spoke again. 

“She must have done it deliberately.” 

Her tone was almost interrogative. 

“Who?” 

Betty knew while she asked. 

“And I think she ought to know I 
know,” continued Janet in a light, hard 
voice. “Will you tell her? But I suppose 
I ought to tell her myself.” 

“It won’t be pleasant, but I think the 
job belongs to you.” 

“Of course. I came to ask you to talk 
to her because Rebecca Calloway never 
liked me.” 

“ Her wicked feeling is directed against 
your verses, not against you. And if I 
went first, you would have to see Rebecca 
just the same — if it is Rebecca.” 

“It is! I know it is.” 

“But it may be a mistake on her part.” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps. I think, 


222 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


though, that she just got into the habit 
of thinking of the verses as hers, and 
then it was easy to pretend. I thought 
you would know who the faculty was.” 

“Some of the English or hterature peo- 
ple, of course,” returned Betty. “And we 
can eliminate Miss Haviland, because she 
could not confuse two Rhymsters. Come 
over to college now, and I’ll do some 
diplomatic work with Miss Lawrence. 
She may know about it, and she expects 
a call from me on Magazine business.” 

They went, although Janet was still 
quaking with indecision in regard to the 
interview with Rebecca, whom she ad- 
mired, and despised, and feared, simul- 
taneously. After wandering about the 
galleries in a vain effort to still the accus- 
ing demon within her, she ventured through 
the corridor, past Rebecca’s door. There 
were no voices. As she turned to walk 
back the door opened. In the bright 
space stood Miss Calloway, the heavy roll 
of her black hat making a severe curve 
above the perfect forehead. Janet studied 
the picture sensitively while she asked, 



SHE VENTURED PAST REBECCA’S DOOR 


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A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 223 


“Were you going out, Miss Calloway?” 

“How do you do, Miss Clay? Yes, I 
have an engagement, — but I can wait a 
moment. Will you come in?” 

The invitation was not mgent, hut Janet 
accepted it. 

“I shall not make a long call,” she said, 
dryly, as she refused the offered chair. “I 
just wanted to ask whether you can explain 
this.” 

She pushed her letter into Rebecca’s 
right hand without seeing the crumpled 
envelope in the left hand of her adversary. 
She was watching Rebecca’s face as she 
scanned the type-written page; she saw 
the gentle eyes dilate and brighten under 
the lifted arches of the brows, and the 
nostrils throb above the firm lips. 

“I’m not sure that I understand how 
you expect me to help you in this matter,” 
was Rebecca’s first remark. 

“Did you send some verses to that 
magazine?” demanded Janet. 

“Yes, but my contribution met with the 
same fate as yours. They didn’t accept it.” 


224 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“But they ham accepted mine, as nearly 
as they could. All they want is to know 
how far my work is to be trusted. I want 
you to tell them that I wrote that ridiculous 
love poem, just as I said I did.” 

“Did you tell them that you wrote the 
love song?” 

“Yes, and sent them a clipping from the 
Magazine.” 

“‘R. C.’ and all?” 

“Of course.” 

Rebecca’s face softened again, and she 
breathed free breaths. 

“I see how that trouble came about,” she 
ventured calmly. We must have written 
at the same time, and when they read 
your poem signed ‘R. C.’, they naturally 
compared it with mine and my initials, 
and so fell adoubting your authorship.” 

“Did you say anything about the love 
poem?” asked Janet. 

“ Certainly not. How could I ? I simply 
enclosed my poem at Professor Lawrence’s 
suggestion, and told them so.” 

Rebecca found it not easy to say this. 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 225 


which was strictly true. Janet’s direct 
eyes were unflinchingly scornful. Her si- 
lence made Rebecca nervous and ashamed. 

“But I think perhaps Miss Lawrence” 
she began, and stopped abruptly. 

“I should be glad to know Miss Law- 
rence’s share in this trick,” said Janet 
fiercely. 

“There’s no trick,” said Rebecca gently. 
“I wish you would not get so excited, 
Janet. I ’U help you aU I can.” 

She had never said “Janet” before, in 
that rich, vibrant tone. Her guest was 
baffled by it, and dropped into the chair 
she had before refused. 

“That’s right; sit down, and let me tell 
you about my correspondence with these 
formidable editors. I have their answer 
here. They respect my offering, but say 
nothing about any other poem.” 

Rebecca unfolded the letter she had held, 
and spread it before Janet. The editors 
deeply regretted that they could not make 
use of the work of Miss Lawrence’s friend. 
Rebecca bit her white lips while she watched 


226 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


the eager satisfaction dawning in Janet’s 
face. She felt that her power was no longer 
ascendant. 

‘‘I show this to you so that you may 
understand that I have not claimed your 
laurels,” she said, a trifle harshly. 

“But how did Miss Lawrence come to 
introduce you?” demanded Janet. 

It seemed impossible to escape her keen 
scent. Rebecca’s flnal effort was as futile 
as it was daring. 

“Miss Lawrence liked some of my work,” 
she explained, “and said she thought this 
magazine might like to see some of my 
verses.” 

Janet rose and walked slowly to the door 
without taking her eyes from Rebecca’s 
face. 

“Is that the only explanation you have 
to make?” she asked, and her words seemed 
to escape from an air-tight box. 

“No, not quite all.” Rebecca had risen 
to her slender height and stood like a prin- 
cess above the wan-faced, brown-clad figure. 
“There is one more thing which may help 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 227 


you.” Her white fingers crumpled the 
letter in her hand, while she paused again. 
“1 think I ought to tell you that Miss Law- 
rence may have misunderstood. In fact 
something she said made me think she did 
misunderstand about the love song. She 
seemed to think I wrote it — ” 

“Yes?” said Janet with icy encourage- 
ment, as Rebecca groped for the next sen- 
tence. 

“She told me to send a contribution to 
the Eastern, with her name, for she had 
already spoken to the editor about me. 
I’ve been in her classes, you know.” 

“Did she suggest this because she liked 
the love song?” 

“Yes, I think perhaps she did — partly 
on that accoimt. I wasn’t sure what she 
thought at first, but now I think that may 
have been it. I’m sorry I made the mis- 
take, Janet.” 

Rebecca hardly knew how she had 
reached this half-apologetic statement. She 
was not in the habit of being sorry, and 
her own sincerity at the words surprised 


228 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


and pleased her. She felt that Janet knew 
what she withheld. 

“It seems rather serious to me.” Janet 
tried to speak without reproach, for she 
wanted to be polite to this humiliated 
queen. “Are you willing to mend the 
matter by doing as I asked?” she con- 
tinued. 

“What is that? Oh, tell them you were 
the author of the love song? That is severe 
punishment. You are unmerciful, Janet. 
But I will do it. Since they scorn my poor 
rhymes, I ought to leave a fair field to my 
successful rival You need not fear me 
again.” 

The sudden bitterness in the words con- 
vinced Janet of their truth. 

“I think you will keep your promise,” 
she said slowly. “I don’t want to be un- 
fair, Miss Calloway; I ask only for what is 
mine. You have had all the honor one 
college girl can want. You are beautiful 
and you are famous — here in college. We 
who are neither beautiful nor famous must 
see to it that we keep the few gifts belong- 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 229 


ing to us. I could not let anyone steal the 
things I write, and I am very glad you are 
going to give me back my poem. Thank 
you. That’s all.” 

Before Rebecca could speak, Janet had 
slipped into the hall and closed the door 
behind her. Down stairs in the library she 
found Betty diligently taking notes. To- 
gether they left the long room where the 
electric lights were beginning to gleam in 
the gray of the afternoon, and sat on the 
bench at the foot of the stairs where they 
might talk. Betty had seen Miss Lawrence, 
and by adroit reference to the Wellesley 
Magazine and college verse, had won from 
her hostess the confession that she supposed 
Rebecca Calloway to be the author of the 
love song. “She was abashed when I told 
her you wrote it,” ended Betty, “and she’s 
going to write to those editors today. And 
she wants me to bring you to call on her, 
for she never heard of you before, and she 
is anxious to congratulate you in person.” 

Janet was almost too greatly excited 
over her interview with Rebecca to respond 


230 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


to this unexpected attention. While she 
wondered how much of Rebecca’s conver- 
sation she ought to keep hidden in her own 
mind, she pomed it all forth into Betty’s 
ear. The tale turned Betty’s dumpy figure 
into a frowning statue of wrath, relentless 
and speechless. From this cold anger she 
was roused by the swish of skirts and a sud- 
den Ausion of Rebecca’s imperious white 
face turned upward to catch the words of 
her companion on the staircase. A second 
later the four Rhymsters had exchanged 
bows of uncertain degrees of cordiality. 

“I wonder how much of this story Miss 
Haviland will know,” queried Janet, “be- 
fore they return from their walk.” 

“All the facts,” returned Betty. “But 
related in such a way that even you and I 
would be at a loss to know why we were 
indignant.” 

It was even as Betty had said. Miss 
Haviland was quick to recognize signs of 
distm-bance in Rebecca’s manner, and on 
her side. Rebecca was but wondering how 
she should best present the story to this 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 231 


friend whose good opinion she wished to 
keep. She must tell it, to forestall a later 
report as well as to satisfy her own humili- 
ated spirit. Her soul demanded confession. 
They were walking briskly across the great 
meadow, where the single long line of 
electric lights marked out a path through 
the early winter twilight. Miss HavUand 
spoke of the Rhymsters’ Club, and her 
pleasure in Janet Clay’s contributions. 

“I’m afraid I’ve made an ugly mistake 
on Janet’s account,” said Rebecca. 

“You are going to admit that you were 
deceived in her! I knew you would have 
to appreciate her in time.” 

“Oh, it’s not that. I appreciate her all 
right. But so many people have fancied 
that I wrote her poem in the Magazine.” 

“You should feel flattered rather than 
reproached.” 

“I do. Immensely flattered, of course. 
But I just found out to day that Miss Law- 
rence made the same mistake.” 

Miss Haviland began to see light. 

“When she suggested a contribution to 
the Eastern?” 


232 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Yes.” 

“You have heard, then, from the 
Eastern” 

Rebecca laughed nervously. 

“Yes. Even the Eastern may not recog- 
nize genius, you know. But you knew all 
the time it would end so.” 

“I hoped not. But have you seen Miss 
Lawrence?” 

“No. I’ve seen Janet. That’s much 
worse. I seem to remember, now, that 
Miss Lawrence spoke of a Magazine poem 
— but I’ve had so many in, and I thought 
she knew my work.” 

“That was natural,” put in Miss Havi- 
land. She did not see why Rebecca should 
be unusually nervous. She must be deeply 
disappointed about the rejected poem. 

“Well, it seems Miss Lawrence thought 
she was introducing the writer of that love 
song. Without knowing of this, Janet 
wrote to them about the same time, send- 
ing a copy of that poem and a new one.” 

“And hers was accepted!” 

This stab made Rebecca rally her forces. 
The story was hard to tell at best. 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 233 


“I don’t see why you take that for 
granted. It was accepted conditionally — 
They said one of her poems had been sent 
to them by a member of the faculty who 
introduced another student as the writer. 
The verses were signed ‘R. C.’, you know 
— my initials.” 

“I begin to appreciate yom* predicament,” 
said Miss Haviland, sympathetically. 

“It was awkward. Janet was terribly 
fierce. I didn’t know she could be such 
a fire-brand. She said I had stolen her 
poem ! ” 

Stolen it! My dear, she couldn't think 
that seriously.” 

“I’m glad to know somebody believes in 
my honesty. I had almost begun to thinh 
myself a villain.” 

“ You are too sensitive. It was not youi 
fault, Rebecca. Janet must know that 
It was Miss Lawrence’s mistake.” 

“Yes — but you see I misunderstood her. 
No doubt she thought she made it clear to 
me — but it was only a minute, in the 
corridor. She was in a hurry when she 
stopped me.” 


234 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


In the last two minutes Rebecca had had 
her first fear of Miss Lawrence’s possible 
explanation. 

“Miss Lawrence herself will be the first 
to appreciate that possibility,” said Miss 
Haviland. “Her hasty corridor messages 
have confused students before now.” 

“That is comforting. You are always 
comforting. Somehow I don’t feel quite 
so guilty as I did,” said Rebecca. 

And she meant it. This explanation 
seemed perfectly rational. It was easy to 
banish the remembrance of Janet’s accu- 
sation. With the right-minded friend she 
became herself again to herself, and on 
their homeward walk talked happily of new 
editions until the gigantic bulk of College 
Hall loomed before them into the night; 
the whole great shadow, high on its black 
hill, dotted with even rows of lighted win- 
dows, “like a ship at sea,” Miss Haviland 
said. 

They were merry as they hurried up the 
hill, and all aglow when they entered into 
the warmth and stir of this mammoth house 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 235 


that was never silent. Rebecca was so 
pleased with her readjusted conscience that 
she laughingly told her roommate the story 
of Professor Lawrence’s error. 

“The same that you made yourself, when 
you read the poem in the hospital,” she 
reminded Nell. “I can’t tell you how all 
this attention has flattered me.” 

But NeU, instead of enjojdng the situa- 
tion, was wroth at having been so long 
deceived. Rebecca, however, was not to 
be quelled again, and went down to dinner 
prepared to lead the table talk and keep it 
tossing back and forth among the clever 
girls. The stupid ones, she thought, ought 
not to be encouraged to speak. 

It was after dinner that Rebecca laid 
finally at rest the ghost of her troubled con- 
science. In the student’s parlor, whither 
she had wandered with a group of her 
society friends, to “see what was going 
on,” she came upon Ruth Brown, con- 
tentedly accepting the bantering enter- 
tainment of two sophomores in a rival 
society. Ruth’s face brightened as Re- 


236 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


becca Calloway entered the room. She 
did not know that Rebecca had seen her 
and was waiting her opportunity for a 
word. To approach and claim the fresh- 
man’s attention was more daring than 
difficult. Soon she was walking with 
Ruth up and down the long library 
corridor. 

“I should not have torn you away from 
your friends,” Rebecca was saying, “if I 
had not had a guilty conscience, but I 
wanted to set you right in a mistake you 
made the other day.” 

“Oh, what have I done? I’m always 
doing something dreadful!” 

“This isn’t so very shocking. Lots of 
people thought the same. It was only 
about those verses in the November Maga- 
zine. I forgot to tell you, that night when 
you came to my room, that I didn’t write 
them.” 

“You didn’t write that love song? But, 
Miss Calloway, I’m perfectly sure you wrote 
it!” 

“Oh, no! I never wrote anything half 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 237 


so good! Janet Clay wrote it — I don’t 
believe you know her — another Rhym- 
ster. But she didn’t want anyone to know. 
Now you are disappointed!” 

“No, I’m not. Not a bit. I was only 
thinking that the reason everybody thought 
you did it was that you really could do 
something just like it, or better.” 

“No,” said Rebecca, indulgently, almost 
tenderly. 

“But I’m sure you could. And, any- 
how, Miss Calloway, I like you better than 
ever for owning up. You actually remem- 
bered all this time — nearly a month! It 
was perfectly fine of you to call me out 
and teU me!” 

“It was only fair,” came the heroine’s 
answer. “Anybody would have tried to 
correct such a mistake.” 

Yet Rebecca felt, when she handed her 
young friend over to her rightful hostesses, 
who had been in a corner whispering hard 
things about Rebecca Calloway’s “cheek,” 
that she had done what few girls in her 
place would have done. When she left 


238 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


the bright roomful of girls in their after- 
dinner gayety, she carried with her a feel- 
ing of self-content which she had not known 
for a week. 

This final confession marked the end of 
Rebecca’s uneasiness. Miss Lawrence must 
have taken to herself the blame which 
Rebecca had insinuated upon her, for she 
made no allusion to the subject in Miss 
Calloway’s presence. Even Betty, that 
most dreaded friend, made no comment. 
Indeed she ignored Rebecca’s existence for 
about ten days, at the end of which time 
she announced, -with her head in the door, 
that Janet Clay had resigned from the 
Rhymster’s Club. 

“Why?” asked Rebecca, but she did not 
wait for an answer. “I see no occasion for 
that. We won’t accept her resignation.” 

“We’ve got to,” was the short response. 
And before the head was withdrawn a final 
dart was hurled. “She can’t afford to spend 
her time among the unskillful. The East- 
ern has accepted a poem, and she’s busy 
with others.” 


A LYRICAL INTERLUDE 239 


It was quite true. Miss Haviland, who 
gave Rebecca a hearty welcome half an 
hour before the next Rhymster’s meeting 
was to take place in her room, had seen a 
copy of the poem and pronounced it good. 
She was not blind to the flash of jealous 
pain in Rebecca’s face, but Rebecca only 
said: 

“I’m afraid Janet has resigned on my 
account. She is still suspicious of me.” 

“Perhaps she is — a httle, but that need 
not trouble us. She will learn her mistake. 
And I suppose we ought to remember that 
Janet has only her genius for verse mak- 
ing. She lacks the charm of character and 
personality that others, almost equally 
clever, sometimes possess.” 

Rebecca looked with admiring and grate- 
ful eyes at her friend. 

There was a knock. 

“You always understand,” she said, “and 
you are the only woman I know who does 
not — ” 

“I came early to bring Janet’s formal 
resignation,” said Betty Smith’s voice at 
the open door. 



/ 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 



I 





Sir Toby’s Career 

T he train had left New Haven far 
behind, and was speeding toward 
New York. The girl with the 
soft felt hat pulled well down over her 
brow suddenly lifted her right arm and 
flourished high in air a small red hook 
which had held her attention. Her lips 
moved rapidly, and she seemed to be ad- 
dressing the shifting landscape. The 
hurrying telegraph poles made no response; 
nobody but the girl herself heard the ex- 
uberant speech: “I’ll drink to her as long 
as there is a passage in my throat and 
drink in Illyria!” For the little red book 
was a Temple edition of Twelfth Night, 
and the girl was Helen Douglas, member 
of the Shakespeare Society of Wellesley 
College ; so of course the speech was that 
of Sir Toby Belch. There could be no 
question as to which role she should have 
in the June play. There was to be a re- 


243 


244 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


hearsal at college the following night, and 
somehow there had been no time during 
the spring vacation in Providence to learn 
her lines. But she knew them now. The 
journey to New York had given her several 
hours to herself. She could rtm through 
the entire play, except for a few awkward 
cues. She tried to go over the lines with- 
out reference to the book. She could see 
Sir Andrew and the clown before her; she 
knew what attitudes she would strike. She 
leaned forward and placed her hands on 
her hips. “How now, sot?” But before 
she gave Sir Toby’s waggish turn of the 
head she became conscious of the attention 
of her fellow passengers, and was instantly 
demure. She sat back in proper dignity 
and let her thoughts possess her. They 
were not so care free as the sentiments of 
Sir Toby. During her visit in Providence 
with Mary Dillingham, who was probably 
back in Wellesley by this time, there had 
been little opportunity to think even about 
the play in which they were both con- 
cerned. She remembered other plays and 


Slri TOBY’S CAREER 


245 


her own success in them, with a feeling 
which had in it as much bitterness as 
pride. Nobody else could do the drinking 
scenes so well. It required a person of 
wit and versatility to be a Shakespearean 
drunkard, they told her when she begged 
for other parts. Yes, she knew she had 
versatility and wit, and something more. 
The delicacy and restraint of her Stephano 
had convinced the college public two years 
before that Shakespearean drinking scenes 
were not obnoxious. In private dramatics 
she had played Falstaff with a gravity and 
self-control that had made the girls wonder 
while they wept aloud with laughter. In 
her Junior play they had given her Botr 
tom’s part because he was more nearly 
intoxicated than anybody else. She had 
liked that. But now, instead of the Mal- 
volio she wanted, they had given her Sir 
Toby. Oh, she knew, she knew she could 
do it better; she knew she entered into the 
part with a zest no one else could feel. It 
fascinated her, even while it hurt her a 
little, at heart. She knew why. She 


246 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


wondered whether she should tell her 
father about it that evening. He would 
like to know she could act, but he would 
frown if she told him her part, for it would 
hurt him, too. And he had been hurt so 
much! He had suffered so many, many 
years! He had known — none better than 
he — all the tragedy, not the comedy, of 
habitual drinking. But she would not 
think of that now; she would not remem- 
ber her mother’s death, and her own 
struggling girlhood while she tried to keep 
a little home for the father whose love and 
pride and ambition for her could not con- 
trol the thirst that possessed him. Later 
there had been years of confinement in 
asylum and hospital. In the interval of 
quiet which these years had given, she had 
cut and hewn her way through college. 
Her wit and versatility had helped; and 
now, at .the end of her senior year, the 
worst of the struggle was over. She had 
loved her work, she loved her class, her 
society, her friends; she frankly enjoyed 
the popularity which her talents had won. 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


247 


It was a contented spirit that travelled 
with her, for college was the happiest place 
she had ever known, and the past year had 
brought with it the hope of a little home 
with her father when college life should be 
over. Her thought of this was touched 
with solemnity; it was very wonderful that 
he was able to take again a place among 
men. Her heart grew big as she thought 
of the strange new humility and courage 
in which he had written her of the kind- 
ness of his old law partner in giving him 
desk room and a clerk’s salary. 

She had not seen her father since Christ- 
mas, when she had found a cozy room for 
him in the top of a 21st Street house, near 
Fifth Avenue, where he might live simply, 
but as a gentleman should. Here, she had 
written him, she would visit him this even- 
ing, when her afternoon’s business should 
be happily concluded. It would be a pleas- 
ure to tell him that she had a good position 
for the summer. She gave a sigh for the 
long vacation she knew she could not have, 
and then set resolutely about planning her 


248 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


business interview with the unknown father 
of a pretty but stupid freshman. Long 
before this spirited interview had come to 
an end in her mind the train rumbled into 
the tunnel and warned her to collect her 
belongings. 

When she reached Brooklyn an hour 
later, Miss Douglas felt repaid for the an- 
noyance of hurrying to New York on the 
last day of a short vacation. Mr. Hender- 
son had more brains than his daughter; 
the interview was more animated than the 
visitor had dared to hope, and it ended in 
her consenting to spend the summer with 
his family on the New Jersey coast, in order 
that she might act as tutor to his daughter. 
The scheme promised as well as anything 
of the sort could promise, she thought 
rather ruefiiUy, as she started back to New 
York. She believed she would not tell her 
father, after all. It was not the sort of 
position he would prefer to see his daughter 
fill, and anyway it would be easier to write 
about it. Tonight they should not have 
any worries. She went into a shop on 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


249 


Broadway to buy some old-fashioned mo- 
lasses candy — she remembered her father 
liked it — and then walked cheerfully past 
the gay windows as far as 16th Street, 
where she turned to find dinner and a 
room for the night at the “Margaret 
Louisa.” 

Rain had been falling lightly when she 
went into dinner. It fell in heavy sheets 
when she ventured out at seven. Never 
mind. It was only five blocks up Fifth 
Avenue. She set her umbrella to the 
slanting rain and struggled along the slimy 
dark street with gladness in her heart. 
They were such good comrades, she and 
her father. He would have her letter ; he 
would be waiting for her before his cosy 
fire, and she would dry her wet things and 
make some tea, while he puffed at his pipe 
and watched her contentedly. And then 
they would talk — a httle about their own 
affairs but more, much more, about politics, 
and letters and philosophy, and what this 
fool world was coming to, after all. She 
ran lightly up the steps and pressed the 


250 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


bell button exultingly. She shook the rain 
impatiently from her hat and coat and 
skirts. She rang the bell again. Perhaps 
he would open the door himself. A pale, 
tired-looking woman opened it. 

“I want to see Mr. Douglas. I’ll go 
directly to his room if you are willing.’ ’ 

“Mr. Douglas isn’t here.” 

“Oh, he must be in. He expects me.” 

“No, he isn’t. He hasn’t been here for 
three days.” 

The hall and the sputtering gas grew 
black. The girl groped her way forward. 

“Are you a relative of his?” said the 
woman. 

“I’m his daughter.” 

“Sit down,” said the woman, “here’s a 
chair. I remember you now; you engaged 
his room.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid its been 
an — an annoyance to you.” 

“Well, you could have knocked me over 
with a feather when it happened. Miss. 
Douglas. You were such a lady-like little 
body, and Mr. Douglas was the nicest, 
kindest lodger I had.” 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


251 


Miss Douglas was mute. 

“I’m relieved you’ve come,” continued 
the tired woman. “ It’s been a long time 
now, and his things are here, and the room 
just as he left it Saturday night. There’s 
a letter for him, too.” 

She lifted it from the tray on the hat- 
rack and handed it to her visitor. Helen 
took it — her own letter, unopened. She 
thought of the merry words on the inside. 
He should not have it. When he came 
back he should never know that she had 
come to discover his shame. 

“That is my letter. I will keep it,” she 
said. Her voice seemed to come from a 
great distance. “I wish you would take 
me to his room and tell me all you know,” 
she heard her voice say again. 

The woman looked at her kindly and led 
the way over the weary stairs. He had 
been cross to the children Friday, she said. 
It was the first time, and she supposed they 
did pester him, though he always seemed 
to like them. And Saturday morning, 
she went to his room, thinking he had gone 


252 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


to business and he had — well — he seemed 
very fierce. She had gone away frightened 
and was waiting for her husband, but be- 
fore he had come she heard Mr. Douglas 
go out. And he hadn’t been in since. He 
had paid her Thursday, a week in advance. 

The disordered chamber showed what 
the woman’s rude delicacy or sympathy had 
not put into words. “As long as there is 
a passage in my throat and drink in 
Illyria ! ” called Sir Toby Belch in her ears. 

“ Of course the room is his till Thursday,” 
the woman was saying, “but I don’t think 
I could have him in the house another 
night. I wouldn’t dare.” 

“Certainly not. Don’t think of it. You 
would better clean the room and put his 
things into the valise. He will probably 
come for it by and by. And you needn’t 
mention my visit, Mrs. ” 

“Jocees,” said the landlady, in the hall- 
way. “I’m sure I hope he’s under shelter 
tonight, but I couldn’t take him in — and I 
don’t know as anybody could.” 

“You have been very considerate.” 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


263 


“Well, I’m sure we all liked Mr. Douglas, 
until this happened, and I hope you’ll find 
him safe.” 

Helen fled out into the night. Find him 
safe! She knew she should not find him 
at all. She let the rain drench her. It 
was drenching him too. Fifth Avenue was 
a black river of wind and water, through 
which dim infrequent lights moved slowly, 
like boats afloat in a storm. She had no 
more guidance — , less, than they. He 
might be on this very street; the next 
lurching form she met might be his; he 
might be over on the east side; he might 
be- . She at once saw the need of dis- 

pelling every wild thought of seeking him. 
She could not remember his old friend’s ad- 
dress. He lived in Harlem, miles away. 
She had no money to use in the search, and 
if she found him she could do less for him 
than the city ofiicials. The city provided 
for its own poor and destitute, she remem- 
bered. And she remembered how. At 
any rate, there would be shelter. And 
then her own light-hearted words of a few 


254 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


weeks ago flashed across her mind. “A 
city park must be a very good place for a 
poor man to spend the night in.” 

The water streamed from her umbrella 
as she handed it to the small black bell-boy 
at the door of the “ Margaret Louisa.” She 
became suddenly conscious of the wet 
pasteboard that dangled by a string from 
her finger. She thrust the poor little box 
into the boy’s hands. “Do you like molas- 
ses candy ?” she asked bluntly. His shin- 
ing eyes and teeth left a half comforting 
image in her mind. While she was taking 
her key from the ofiice, some one spoke 
her name — an old college girl whom she 
had not seen for two years. 

“Come in and talk to us. My sister is 
here, and another ’97 girl. But how wet 
you are!” 

“Yes,” returned Helen, “I’m wet. Too 
wet to sit down.” 

“You look as though you’d had a good 
time. The wind has given you so much 
color. But you always knew how to enjoy 
life.” 


SIR TOBl^ CAREER 


255 


“It’s better to learn young, and I make 
the most of my opportunities. Perhaps I 
shall see you in the morning.” 

Helen knew she should leave before any- 
body else had breakfast, but she wanted to 
be alone. 

“Oh, come down to-night. I want you to 
meet my fiance. I’ll lend you some dry 
things.” 

“I may as well talk gayly as think 
bitterly,” reflected Helen as she consented. 

The evening was very gay, and the most 
daring, most exhilarating talker was Miss 
Douglas. She told them college stories of 
the current year; she mimicked the idio- 
syncracies of certain well-known members 
of the faculty; she did all the old stunts 
the ’97 girls had seen her do at college two 
years before. 

“Do your Stephano stunt!” cried her 
friend ; but Stephano refused to be coaxed. 
She had forgotten it, and it was no good 
anyway, without Trinculo and Caliban 
She would do the new instructor in biology 
for them. She did it, and then said good 


256 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


night hastily; if she waited for the nine 
o’clock train she would see them in the 
morning. She knew she should not wait for 
the nine o’clock train. 

She went hurriedly to bed and tried hur- 
riedly to go to sleep that she might not think, 
that she might not hear the merciless beat of 
the rain. She succeeded better than she 
knew, and rested heavily until she was sum- 
moned at a dark hour in the morning. It 
was hard to waken to the pain; and it was a 
weary journey to Forty-second street; yet 
the long rows of tracks that gleamed mysteri- 
ously in the half light under the train shed, 
made her feel a little hopeful. She let the 
train pidl her out, away from the mighty 
city that held her father hidden in its re- 
lentless heart. The gray light spread over 
the scattering houses ; a window high on a 
hill shone red; and soon the gaunt trees 
were bathed in yellow light. It was to be 
a bright day. She prayed that the sun 
might comfort him a little, too. For her 
it was to be a day of unceasing activity. 
As soon as the hours in the train were over. 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


267 


she could go to work, and evening would 
bring the rehearsal. Her spirit quailed a 
little at that. She would not go over her 
lines again; she would write notices for a 
meeting of the senior dramatics committee 
which she, as chairman, must conduct the 
next afternoon. She was glad she had only 
a minor part in “The Knight of ihe Burn- 
ing Pestle.” She had insisted on being a 
girl, and not the tipsy gentleman who sang 
and danced so prettily. 

Her late registration and afternoon lec- 
tures made it impossible for her to see 
many of the girls before rehearsal. 

“ Hello, Douglas ! Here’s the Black 
Douglas!” they cried, as she entered the 
Shakespeare house. They had given her 
this historic nick-name because she was so 
dark and so proud of her Scottish descent! 
There was not time for much exchange of 
talk. She found Mary Dillingham, their 
president, scowling in a comer over Olivia’s 
lines. 

“Hello, you must be tired,” said Mary. 
“I’m glad I didn’t go to New York with 


268 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


you. A dance Saturday night, callers Sun- 
day night, travel all day Monday, — did 
you have your visit with your father last 
night?” 

“No. He wasn’t at home. He didn’t 
get my letter in time.” 

“What a shame !” 

“Yes, it was a shame.” Helen’s eyes 
looked large and bright. “But I got my 
summer settled.” 

“I suppose you’re glad of that. I am, if 
you are, but I think you might have 
promised to come home with me.” 

“ Never mind, ducky, I ’ll visit you for 
years some day!” Helen was suddenly 
vivacious. “How now, chick! What, my 
fair niece , art wasting away for a lover?” 

“0, get along!” exclaimed Olivia. “Do 
you know your hues? I don’t.” 

“Of course I know my lines — every 
sugar sweet word. How do you suppose 
I’ve been spending my time since I left 
you in the Providence station yesterday?” 

She did know her lines; but there was 
nothing surprising about that accomplish- 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


259 


ment. The Douglas always knew her lines. 
Nobody ever saw her learn them. What 
did surprise the girls was the abandonment 
with which she stormed through her part 
while her fellow actors were wondering 
what positions they should assume, or 
whether the clown should enter from the 
right or left. The Douglas was undaunted 
by any interruption. From his first jovial 
utterance, “I’m sure care’s an enemy to 
life,” to his last speech in the second act. 
Sir Toby’s reckless attitudes and boisterous 
spirit dominated the place and aroused the 
uncontrollable mirth of his fellows on the 
stage. Never once was Sir Toby anything 
but Sir Toby. During intervals between 
his scenes he waggishly accosted Sir An- 
drew, a tall, scholarly-looking girl who was 
bending over a note-book in a vain effort 
to prepare for tomorrow’s quiz. When 
the rehearsal was over and Sir Toby had 
sung his way up the hiU to Wood, “111 go 
binn some sack ; ’tis too late to go to bed 
now,” he said. Mary remonstrated; Sir 
Toby scowled angrily. “Dost think be- 


260 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


cause thou art virtuous there shall be no 
more cakes and ale?” 

No one saw the change that fell upon 
her when she had closed her own door 
behind her. She did not bimi sack. Lone- 
liness overwhelmed her. Nobody living, 
not even her father, himself, knew the 
pain she was trying to endure. She 
thought with scorn of the mad mood the 
girls had laughed at. She sat wearily in 
her big chair for half an hour, and then 
crept wearily to bed. In the darkness the 
old bright vision possessed her, of the cozy 
room and her father sitting before the fire 
contentedly puffing at his pipe and watch- 
ing her. Tenderness filled her. He had 
suffered so many years ! And the first 
tears forced themselves slowly between 
burning lids and fell upon the pillow. “I 
mustn’t cryl I mustn’t cry! I shall be 
so tired I can’t think tomorrow.” But the 
Douglas did cry. The witty, versatile, mad 
Douglas fell asleep with wet eyes. 

She was tired, yet not so tired that she 
could not think quickly the next day. 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


261 


While she dressed as late and as rapidly as 
possible, she decided, notwithstanding an 
increasing list of fines, to omit the mando- 
lin club rehearsal at eight o’clock, in order 
that she might write an urgent note asking 
the assistance of her father’s old law 
partner. He might know where and in 
what condition the unhappy wanderer 
might be. It was not an easy note to 
write. For twenty minutes Helen bent a 
white, anxious face over the paper, then 
she sealed it hastily and made ready for 
the nine-o’clock train to Boston. It was 
her duty, as business editor of the Maga- 
zine, to imge the representatives of certain 
well-known Boston firms to renew their 
advertisements in the college monthly. 
She must remind them that the May num- 
ber would circulate among the alumnae 
who would come together early in June 
from all over the country and fill the Bos- 
ton shops. 

Helen Douglas had met with unusual 
success in her efforts at soliciting advertise- 
ments. The Magazine had paid this year 


262 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


because the class had seen the wisdom of 
appointing to the business office a girl who 
had not only business ability, but an attrac- 
tive personality as well. College students 
have learned that the few among them who 
cherish a deep voice and brusque manner 
are not more natmally endowed with ex- 
ecutive ability than their more graceful 
comrades. The Black Douglas was not a 
girl with a man’s coat and stride. She 
had the woman’s gift of bowing a ribbon; 
and she was the best business woman in 
her class. She depended this morning on 
the self-confidence which that reputation 
had given her, for she knew she looked 
wan and long faced, not energetic nor per- 
suasive. It was disheartening to meet 
with three polite but firm refusals. Was 
it because she felt so sad? she wondered. 
With two new quarter-page advertisements 
in her pocket, she boarded the eleven 
o’clock train, and was soon absorbed in her 
economics note-book. 

At Wellesley there was just time to 
hmry up to college for an 11.45 lecture on 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


263 


Kantian ethics. After a hasty luncheon 
she wrote to the printer whom she had 
been unable to see in town; and before 
half-past one there was time to run through 
the Latin lesson which she had assigned to 
her pupil. It was a passage long familiar 
to her, and one which might as well have 
been Sanskrit as Latin to little Miss Hen- 
derson, who appeared pimctually, with the 
usual helpless frown between the pretty 
brows, and the usual tossing of yellow 
curls and rustling of sUken skirts. The 
lesson over, Helen walked as far as the Art 
Building with her pupil, who was eagerly 
unfolding plans for summer “good times.” 
There she left her, and ran in late to the 
quiz in economics. At 3.20 she went to 
CollegeHall for a history lectme. At 4.15 
she was waiting at the second floor centre 
for the members of her senior play 
committee. 

Everyone knows that the management 
of a large committee is, next to editing 
the Legenda, the most thankless task in 
college ; and it is generally understood that 


264 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


the most intricate problems of the four 
years must be solved by the chairman who 
controls the fate of the senior pay. The 
one girl who provides her class with final 
honor, and the several actors with glory 
and all its adjuncts, usually stands in the 
shadow of her own production. Helen 
knew that no one would ever consider the 
hours of swift and hard thinking that must 
create success for the play. It was clear 
that most of her assistants had, as yet, 
little appreciation of the amount of work 
to be done. During this first meeting 
of the new term, hesitation and disagree- 
ment prolonged the imcertam action. Each 
chairman of a sub-committee had opinions 
on every department but her own. When 
they adjornned they had reached only one 
conclusion: that two rehearsals a week 
should be required of every scene. This 
meant that Helen must find immediately 
the girls who were to play principal roles, 
for no one but the Douglas, herself an 
actor, could make them cheerfully volim- 
teer to attend any number of rehearsals 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


265 


Even the leading lady, who was in a bad 
hiunor over a basket-ball wrangle, became 
goodnatured under Helen’s adroit jibes and 
flattery. 

When finally she could trudge down hill 
and up again to dinner, the chairman ear- 
nestly wished that she had been born with- 
out brains. All through the long day mind 
and body had not taken a second’s rest, and 
not until after dinner was there an oppor- 
tunity to drop into a big chair. She was 
soon ferreted out of her corner by the 
open fire. 

“ Get yoim mandolin, Douglass, and tune 
us up. We’re all homesick.” 

“You all’s come to de wrong niggah dis 
time,” was the rejoinder. 

“ Oh, go ahead ! ” 

“ I’ll get your fiddle,” cried another. 

“Dis niggah’s mighty nigh wore out.” 

“Please do, Nell, the girls want some- 
thing lively,” said Mary DilMngham. 

The mandolin was put into her liands. 
She took her position on the stairs, with 
girls grouped about on steps, in reception 


266 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


room, and square hallway. “Sing ‘little 
Yaller Boy,” they demanded. She sang it. 
“Now ‘Mandalay.’” She sang “Mandalay.” 
“More coon songs,” was the next cry. 
She sang all she knew and ended with a 
rag time tune that set some of the southern 
girls off into a shuffle. They were a merry 
crowd, and at half after seven they dis- 
persed noisily and were soon at work for 
to-morrow’s appointments. Helen studied 
for an hour. She longed to go to hed. 
Her two days of travel, the two nights of 
grieving, the third day of a thousand ac- 
tivities, had made her unutterably weary; 
and the dull ache at her heart drove a 
lump into her throat at intervals. “I’ll 
go to bed. I will not dance to-night,” she 
thought. 

A classmate knocked at her door and 
entered in gymnasium suit and mackintosh. 

“Ready?” she asked. 

“I don’t believe I’ll go.” 

“Oh, you must. We’re going to practice 
a new step to-night Hurry into your suit 
while I wait.” 


SIE TOBY’S CAREER 


26T 


There seemed to be no excuse to offer; 
and after all, she might as well dance as 
cry, so she slipped into the practice cos- 
tume, and went off to rehearse with eleven 
others who were to dance for the senior 
class on Tree Day. The movement was 
good for exhausted nerves and tense mus- 
cles; and it made her so tired that she 
almost fell asleep in the act of brushing 
her hair when she prepared for bed an hour 
later. 

The succeeding days were equally full of 
hourly demands. Helen felt glad of the 
busy life that made it impossible to dwell 
for many minutes upon the anxiety and 
the heart-breaking pity that increased with 
every day. It was a week before she heard 
from her father’s friend that John Douglas 
had not been discovered until he came back 
to the office at his own will, feeble, appar- 
ently destitute, and unable to give any 
account of himself. It had seemed wisest, 
his old friend said, to place him in a Home 
where he could be cared for until he should 
once again he able to help himself. The 


268 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


letter showed the genuine compassion 
which a strong man sometimes feels for 
a weak friend and a helpless woman. 
Helen felt the compassion, and resented 
it while she honored the man who gave 
it. She was by no means helpless, yet, she 
told herself, and she had not known horror 
and loneliness all her life to be gulled by 
the spectres now. In her bitterest mo- 
ments Helen never lost an invincible faith 
in the joy and sweetness which she knew 
must be in the world, however shadowed 
her own present year might be. To retain 
that faith, even more than to claim the joy 
for her own, seemed to her a necessity. 
Everyone knew a little of it, she thought, 
even her father, who had once been the 
owner of a bright home and the leading 
spirit in a choice coterie of friends. He 
had been versatile, too, she remembered. 
And then she wrote to him, cheering little 
letters, as merry as she dared make them 
in reply to the dignified but despairing 
and imcertain tone of his incoherent notes. 

After three weeks of silent grieving, the 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


269 


loneliness became almost liiore than Helen 
could bear. There was so much apparent 
comradeship all about her; so little real 
sympathy for her. The activity which 
seemed at first a boon became a burden. 
She worked with feverish persistence for a 
time, and then more and more automati- 
cally. She was tired; very tired. 

There seemed to be no reason why she 
should have to drag herself from building 
to building. Every senior who could do 
things had to he busy, and some were 
carrying ten rehearsals a week. She had 
only eight. There was more reason why 
she should find “ Sir Toby ’ ’ obnoxious. She 
began to loathe that fascinating gentleman. 
Not since the first night of the term had 
she been able to act with any spirit. The 
girls were puzzled at her apparent indiffer- 
ence and began to criticise her voice and 
gestures. The trainer could make nothing 
of her sudden dislike for the part. 

‘‘It isn’t a sudden dislike,” Helen pro- 
tested to the society president, who was her 
warmest friend. “You know I’ve never 


270 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


enjoyed these parts you think I do so 
well.” 

“That’s just a notion. You’re not a 
squeamish prig. And you can do them so 
weU!” 

“I wish you would let me change with 
Malvolio.” 

“But it’s too late now, Nell. The play 
comes off in less than a month. MalvoHo 
couldn’t do Sir Toby, anyway. If you 
would only do Sir Toby as well as you can, 
in rehearsals I mean — of course you’ll get 
fired up to it in the play — things would 
go aU right.” 

“I wiU,” she said. “I’ll do it. I ’spose 
I have been too lackadaisical.” Her face 
was white and set; there were tense lines 
about the mouth. 

“Is anything the matter, Nell?” ventured 
Mary. “You’ve looked worried lately.” 

“No, I suppose I’m getting tired. Just 
a little dragged, you know.” 

“Of course, we all are. But is that all? ” 

Helen succeeded in answering calmly. 

“Not quite. My father’s ill again.” 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


271 


“Not dangerotisly ill?” 

“Oh no, I don’t think so. He’s in a hos- 
pital — but he’s getting better.” 

“Nell, I’m so sorry!” Mary’s face 
showed her sympathy. She was not the 
sort of girl to grow demonstrative. “Why 
didn’t you tell us before? Doesn’t any- 
body know it?” 

“What’s the use? He isn’t dangerously 
ill. And everybody here has her worries. 
Don’t say anything to the girls.” 

Mary Dillingham knew that Helen’s tone 
meant more than the words signified, but 
she could not guess the meaning. 

“You’re tired, Nell,” she said, “and you’d 
better rest when you get a chance. Don’t 
come to rehearsal tonight. You know 
your lines, and a dummy can do the cues 
for once.” 

Helen was grateful for this word of sym- 
pathy. It was her own fault, she under- 
stood, that she had not more of the same 
sort. She was tired. She had not realized, 
until she gave herself the hoim’s rest that 
Mary had made possible, how tired she was. 


272 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Yet she was determined to do better in 
the rehearsals. The girls did not know 
her difficulties, and she did not wish them 
to know. She must accept their harsh 
criticism, then, in the spirit in which it was 
given, and mend her ways. Her society 
should continue to be proud of her. 

The next rehearsal was a little easier. 
Her absence had suggested the idea that 
she might be ill, and Mary Dillingham had 
said the Douglas was a little worried about 
her father who was in a hospital. The 
girls who had homes of their own began to 
wonder how it would feel to have your 
father or mother ill in hospital. They com- 
mended her tonight; and Helen, on her 
side, summoned all her coolness and sense 
of humor. “As long as there is a passage 
in my throat and drink in Illyria,” she 
thundered, in a vain attempt to stifle the 
mocking fiend in her ear. 

There were others who began to watch 
Helen Donglas with growing uneasiness. 
At the end of May a member of the faculty 
who had been advisor and friend, admon- 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


273 


ished her to do less. It was impossible, 
Helen said. Nobody else could take her 
part in the Shakespeare play; as chairman 
of the senior play, she could not give up 
the minor part she had in “The Knight of 
Burning Pestle.” Tree Day was so near 
that she could not drop out of the dance 
without spoiling the figure; the Magazine 
work was practically ended, and she had 
dropped the Mandolin Club. She thought 
her work was growing easier. Yet her 
heart failed her as she looked ahead 
at the final senior papers which must be 
written before the degree could be hers. 
Her college work was by no means poor, 
but she knew it was often superficial. She 
could afford to slight it a little, she thought, 
because she had made a good record; yet 
she was chagrined and angered when the 
Professor of Philosophy had written, as 
comment on a paper of which Helen was 
not proud, “This paper is interesting, but 
it shows that you are bringing past achieve- 
ments rather than present effort to your 
work.” 


274 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


After a few weeks of struggle to lighten 
her increasing burden, Helen doggedly 
accepted every fresh claim on her time. 
Yes, she would picnic in the woods on the 
thirtieth; yes, she would toast the faculty 
at the class supper. It was easier to say 
yes, and there was always a way to ac- 
complish the impossible. At any rate, she 
had no fears for Tree Day. That was to 
be the first performance, and “Sir Toby” 
would appear in pubhc at the end of the 
following week. Between the two dates, 
her four final papers must go in to the sev- 
eral departments. Tree Day came and 
passed, and left her trembling with fatigue. 
The other girls did not seem to mind it. 
She thought that miserable grip she had 
had in March must have deprived her of 
more strength than she knew. But she 
must write her papers. She had gathered 
material and had jotted down ideas for two 
of them, although not a word had been 
written. She wrote steadily Saturday, 
Sunday and Monday, except when she re- 
hearsed for two hours Saturday night and 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


275 


Monday night. Tuesday she began the 
last paper. It must go in at nine o’clock 
Wednesday morning. In the afternoon 
came a querulous, insistent, unhappy letter 
from her father. She must help him to 
get away from that miserable place full of 
maniacs if she wanted him to keep his own 
sanity. Could she not draw an advance 
on her summer salary? For even if the 
doctors would discharge him, he hadn’t a 
suit of clothes of his own. She had to re- 
fuse to send him money. If she had had 
it, she knew she must still refuse, and the 
thought tormented her. It tormented her 
throughout the rehearsal that evening. 
She forgot her lines, — an unheard of thing 
for the Douglas — and turned bewildered 
to the prompter. “I hate — ” began the 
prompter. Helen remembered. She gave 
her arm a sideways fling. ‘‘I hate a 
drunken rogue,” she said listlessly. “Oh, 
put some spirit into it! Say it as if you 
meant it !” exclaimed the coach. She went 
back to Wood in complete discouragement. 
She felt that she could never do it. But 


276 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


she could and must finish that final paper 
on economics. She worked slowly, inter- 
mittently, confusedly, until after midnight. 
The June bugs had never been so annoy- 
ing. The room seemed full of them, bump- 
ing in stupid succession at the window. 
She got up and killed them fiercely, and 
then bent again over her work. She was 
hardly conscious of the throbbing in her 
head and back ; she knew only the scratch- 
ing of her pen, loud as a saw-mill, and the 
buzz of millions of beetles that sounded to 
her exaggerated hearing like the fall of a 
cataract. She signed her name to the last 
paper. Her head fell forward on her arms. 
When she had a thought again she could 
not tell whether she had slept or fainted. 
She had strength to creep into bed, but 
there she could not sleep. The night wind 
became a flood to frighten and torment her. 
“Sir Toby’s” fines ran mockingly through 
her mind. “Sir Toby’s” face and her 
father’s changed places to mock at her. 
She heard her own voice crying, “How 
now, sot?” 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


277 


The next morning Mary Dillingham dis- 
covered that Helen was ill. “1 shall be 
up for rehearsal tonight,” said the invalid 
feebly, ‘‘ and will you take my papers over 
before nine o’clock? You know where.” 

She was not up for rehearsal. Doctor 
and nurse agreed that she would not be up 
for either rehearsel or play, again, and she 
was summarily carried off to the college 
hospital. She was glad. It was so pleas- 
ant to lie in bed. But she would get up 
Friday for the dress rehearsal. Before 
Friday came, Mary Dillingham told her that 
someone else was to do “Sir Toby” — an 
old girl who had come back for the play 
and for commencement, and who had done 
“Sir Toby” five years before, at the first 
performance of Twelfth Night. 

“Of course it isn’t according to precedent 
for an alumna to take part, but I shall 
make the announcement, and everybody 
will understand. It’s lucky she’s here. 
But why didn’t you let us know how tired 
you were getting?” 

“Didn’t know it myself. It’s my own 
fault. And I worried, I suppose.” 


278 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“About your father?” 

Helen nodded, while the tears rolled 
weakly down her face. 

“He’s — he’s too much like Sir Toby 
she whispered. 

“Oh, Nell, why didn’t you tell me? 
You should have had Malvolio if we had 
known. Is that why — why he is in hos- 
pital?” 

Helen nodded again. She could not 
speak. 

“And is it why you didn’t see him in 
New York?” 

There was no answer at aU now. 

“Never mind, Nell, please don’t cry. 
It’s bad for you, you know. And the play 
is going all right.” Mary put her hand on 
Helen’s shoulder. 

“Cheer up,” she said. “I shan’t be al- 
lowed to come again if you cry. And 
I’ve a plan to unfold.” 

She talked soothingly about her own 
home and the quiet summer they should 
have together. It was better economy, 
she said, to give up the summer position 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


279 


and be ready for work in the fall. “And 
besides,” she continued, “my father wants 
to see you before they decide on a new 
high school teacher next year, so you’ll 
have to come.” 

She left Sir Toby a little comforted, 
and when a week was gone, and Helen was 
permitted to see a few more visitors, her 
classmates came to tell her how well the 
senior play was going, because of her good 
planning, and how little she was really 
needed, after all, even while they missed 
her so terribly. 

She must stop all work for the summer, 
the doctors said, and rest both mind and 
body. She was too completely exhausted 
to rebel at any orders. She knew the girls 
blamed themselves for letting her work so 
hard; and she knew, also, that she could 
have borne the work alone. She had rear 
soned about it many times before. College 
work, with its demand of regularity and 
exercise, tended to make a girl stronger. 
The social and executive responsibility, 
which a senior sometimes permitted herself 


280 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


because she found it easier to say “yes” 
than “no,” often led to a comphcation of 
appointments and exactions which were 
usually carried off successfully in spite of 
well-merited fatigue. Nobody but the girls 
themselves, in facing the problem of “over- 
work,” seemed to realize that almost every 
senior in college was carrying anxiety, and 
often sorrow, for her people at home. It 
was when the invisible burdens became 
the heaviest that a girl gave out. Helen 
Douglas had not regained her buoyant 
health since the March illness that seemed 
so slight. She had worked under pressure 
with bitter sorrow and loneliness in her 
heart. She herself saw, now, how inevitar 
ble her fall had heen, and wondered that 
she should so have wasted her strength 
over the unessential things in college life. 

There were many cheering moments in 
those last three weeks in the college hospi- 
tal. There was time, now, to see her 
friends, who made brief calls during visit- 
ing hours. She had never known before 
how many friends she had among faculty. 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


281 


classmates, and lower-class girls. The new 
Sir Toby came kindly, regretfully. Her 
society friends ran errands and delivered 
messages for her. After the play she 
gloried with them in their success. 

“Sir Toby did nobly, considering,” they 
said, “but you are the only Sir Toby for 
us.” Helen felt her eyes fill at this, as 
they filled so often, now. 

It was very hard to lie in bed the night 
of the class supper. It was to have been 
a time so loudly merry that no one should 
voice the sadness in all their hearts. And 
somebody else must toast the faculty, that 
august body of severe, clever, kind, and 
droll individuals whom she had alternately 
mimicked and reverenced for four years. 

On the night of the senior play her 
class sent a mammoth box of heavy roses 
to her bedside, with a formal but sincere 
note penned by the class secretary that 
brought the ready tears to her eyes again. 
They were all so good to her ! 

Commencement Day, she knew, would 
be the hardest. The seniors were too busy 


282 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


with fathers and mothers and coimtry 
cousins to visit her. Instead of entertain- 
ing a proud family, she tried to explain in 
a letter to her father her own apparently 
unaccountable illness and the necessity of 
giving up her position for the summer. 
That, she knew, would be a disappointment 
for him, and he would grieve over her 
weakness, too. 

In the afternoon she insisted that she 
must be wrapped in her senior gown, while 
she sat propped in a chair, trying to im- 
agine the stately procession, in academic 
garb, that was moving from College HaU 
down the hill, through the shadows, and 
across the sward to the chapel, as the gath- 
ering volume of the organ music pealed 
forth to meet them. She seemed to see 
the golden afternoon light falling through 
stained glass upon the brilliant line of doc- 
tors’ and masters’ hoods which were all 
that the audience could see of the entering 
trustees and faculty. And there, after the 
alumnae, came her own class, filing silently 
into the foremost seats. It was for them 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


283 


the organ pealed, and the audience waited, 
and the majestic figure of the president 
stood with her allies, erect and thoughtful. 
Helen was quite sure that, notwithstanding 
the stiffness of the figures in the front 
seats, and deeper than any smothered 
growls at the heat, there lay under those 
senior caps and gowns a new sense of 
solemnity. And they would feel sorry for 
her vacant seat. She was sorry for it her- 
self; but she was more sorry for the pause 
that came when her name was read, before 
the president added the words, “m ab- 
sentia.^’ Yet the degree was hers. She 
had not lost that, and at the moment it 
meant more to her than she had ever 
dreamed it could mean. She knew a girl 
who had not “worked her way through” 
could never really grasp the deepest sig- 
nificance of the college diploma. All these 
reflections brought an alarming mood which 
might have ended in complete demoraliza- 
tion had not the most versatile girl in her 
class recovered her philosophic sense and 
her sense of humor. She made merry 


284 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


with the nurse all the evening, and begged 
to be entertained by stories such as only a 
trained niu’se can tell. Very, very early, 
on her Commencement night, before nine 
o’clock, she was lying in the dark, trying 
to shut out the sound of singing that was 
borne across the distance and in at her 
windows. It was hardest of all not to go 
out serenading with the girls. The faint 
voices died away; but she knew the young 
black-robed alumnae, who had been seniors 
six hours before, were still singing steadily 
on their march to the village, where they 
would serenade Mrs. Dmant with voices a 
little faltering, perhaps, but with hearts 
more truly touched by gratitude than ever 
before. Helen turned her face toward the 
wall, and, with a resolute spirit, fell asleep 
before she could think whether her tears 
were glad or sorry. 

She awoke suddenly from a confused 
dream of melody. Her room was full of 
white moonlight, and from beneath the 
open window came the sound of her own 
name chanted in volume by girls’ voices. 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


285 


Soon melody and words became clear. She 
knew who it was. 

“ 0 won’t you come down to us, Douglas, 
Douglas! Douglas, Douglas, faithful and 
true.” 

Before Helen could stumble giddily out 
of bed the voices had taken up the class 
song. Helen herself had written it when 
they were all noisy freshmen. “A poor 
thing, but mine own,” she said aloud, and 
laughed happily as she reached for her 
senior gown. She must have her cap too. 
She remembered seeing the nurse push it 
into a drawer. She groped her way to the 
bureau; and there in the moonlight she 
soberly adjusted the cap over the braids 
that were hastily pinned up. Her heart 
beat faster, and her fingers trembled as she 
flung the tassel from its accustomed place 
to the right side front. All the old senior 
caps below must be wearing the almnna 
tassel tonight. 

In a moment she was at the window. 
Between the silvered oak branches gleamed 
the quiet lake; and down there on the 
gray grass, with the moonlight streaming 


286 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


on their upturned faces, stood her black- 
garbed classmates. As the rollicking strains 
of the song died away, Helen leaned far out. 
Before they saw her, her single voice began 
the class cheer. They let her finish it. 

“Rah! Rah! nine-<e< 

N-i-n-e ! 

Ninety-nme ! Ifinety-mn ^ ! Wellesley ! 

'Ninety-nine / Ninety-nine/ Ninety-ntne/” 

She tried hard to make it strong and 
glad, but the last weak cry sounded like a 
wail. Same of the girls below were chok- 
ing, too; yet they snatched the cry from 
her lips and repeated it hoarsely with her 
name at the end. The black and white 
figure in the window made no response. 

“Hello, Douglas, got yom sheepskin?” 
called one. 

“Yes, sah,” came the answer. “I done 
ketched de ole sheep like a bull by de 
horns.” 

“I reckon dat’s so, honey,” replied a 
voice. “We took ours like ’twas a roast 
lamb.” 

“ All right to-night, Nell ? ” called another. 

“’Course I am.” 


SIR TOBY’S CAREER 


287 


“Then go to bed like a good girl. Sorry 
we woke you up — but we won’t do it again. 
It’s two o’clock.” 

“Good-night, Douglas,” “Good-night, 
NeU,” “Good-night, Sir Toby.” 

“Good-night! Good-night, ’99!” called 
the girl’s clear voice. 

She watched them vanish round the cor- 
ner, immindful of the hand-clapping that 
sounded from shadowy windows all over 
the great building. And after Helen crept 
happily hack' into bed she still heard their 
voices, — strong, firm, joyous in the thought 
of four swift years gone; not over sad at 
the thought of dispersion. The night 
rang with the familiar, haunting strains 
that Wellesley girls have always sung in 
the sad, glad month of June. 







Vtr rr 



WeVe tx)- getli^r txKlayr and to-moprow far a- 


way from our ownWelles-l^ 










INITIATED INTO LOVE 








Initiated Into Love 

‘‘ JFY dear girl, you may stake 

1% /■ your oath there’s a joke hid- 

1 T den somewhere about that 
letter.” 

‘‘But it sounds natural enough, — just 
like any of Henry’s notes. The only odd 
thing about it is his asking permission to 
bring another man. At home he always 
tries to make things unpleasant for any 
other man I happen to be with.” 

The speaker smiled and bit her lip. “I 
wish people wouldn’t take so much for 
granted,” she said. 

“If you make another irrelevant remark 
like that I shall begin to think you are fall- 
ing in love with Henry Nettleton.” 

“I’m not in love with him! You know 
I’m not, Constance.” She rose from her 
place at the writing table and perched her- 
self on the arm of her friend’s chair. “I 
just like him ever so much, that’s all. I’ve 

291 


292 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


known him always, and somehow people 
always think — but it isn’t so! You know 
it isn’t, Constance.” She put her arm about 
her friend, and kissed her forehead. 

“I know the fair Pauline doesn’t know 
her own mind just at present.” Constance 
looked with proud eyes at the handsome 
friend for whose impulsive heart and sane 
head she had no lasting fear. “Let’s go 
over it again,” she continued. “You see 
those two words ‘fraternity’ and ‘initiated’ 
make me suspicious.” 

Two heads bent together over the small 
sheet that bore the Greek letters of a well 
known fraternity. 

“I want you to meet a good friend of 
mine — Paul Sturm. Y ou will have to treat 
him well because he is a German; you 
always liked them. T never could be one. 
Sturm is one of our men, or will be when 
he is fairly initiated. A fine fellow, but a 
little embarassed in the company of ladies. 
You will readily put him at his ease, unless 
you turn his head, poor fellow. We should 
like to come out sometime within a week. 
When may I bring him?” 




ICE CARNIVAL 








INITIATED INTO LOVE 


293 


Constance held to her theory. “No fra- 
ternity man ever went off with an initiate 
unless he had some deadly scheme on foot. 
They make such idiots of themselves over 
their childish initiation ! ” 

“His scheme can’t be very deadly if he 
means to do nothing more than introduce 
the man to us. Do you suppose this is just 
a ruse to get Sturm started? He’s got a 
good name. I’m glad he’s German.” 

“Some red-cheeked boy, I suppose, and 
I shall have to take care of him.” 

“Let’s keep them a whole evening! 
Then they can’t do anything dreadful. I 
know what we’ll do. Con, we’ll have them 
out for the ice carnival! And if Hal 
Nettleton is merely making us a means to 
some dark end. I’ll never forgive him.” 

“Ask them out for the carnival, if you 
like,” sighed Constance. “But they’ll 
have all night left for wickedness after 
we’re tucked into bed.” 

“I’ll write to Henry this minute.” 

She took from a drawer some note paper 
bearing the Phi Sigma crest, and wrote 
rapidly. 


294 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“I shouldn’t mind skating with Henry 
Nettleton,” Constance said plaintively, 
“there’s some variety in him. But the 
red-cheeked hoy will fall to my lot, and 
I’d rather skate with you.” 

“Thanks!” from Pauline, still scratching 
her pen over the paper. “I’m telling 
Henry to be here at Norumbega at half 
after seven. Then we’U take them down 
to the house and give them something hot 
before going on the ice.” 

“ Chill thoroughly before setting on ice,” 
remarked Constance reminiscently, “it’s less 
expensive for Phi Sigma. Hot things cost 
a lot. Now I shall dig Greek till 11.45. 
Going over this morning?” 

“Yes, mathematics.” 

“All right. I’ll be ready.” 

Paxiline, left alone, hastily finished her 
note and tossed it aside. She found it hard 
to return to her interrupted problems in 
mathematical astronomy. She walked un- 
easily about the room. She straightened 
her rug; she sprinkled her fern; she stood 
drumming at the window pane of number 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


296 


ten Norumbega, and looked at the hard 
patches of ice on the bare, rough groimd. 
A line of noisy girls hurrying down the hill 
from the Art Building sent her back to her 
books with a sudden determined setting of 
the firm sweet mouth and chin. 

Five minutes later Pauline carried her 
book to her friend’s room. 

“I think I shall study better if I work 
with you,” she said. 

“All right,” responded Constance, glanc- 
ing up from her book, “butl can’t accom- 
modate you with conversation. I’ll just 
get you started. Let me see your book. 
Which problem is it? ” 

They laughed merrily at this, as they 
always did when Constance, who had joy- 
fully ignored mathematics since freshmen 
required work, pretended to help Pauline 
with her favorite senior elective. 

“That eighteenth is a hard one,” Con- 
stance was saying, “just the kind you like 
to do. You have to draw something for it. 
Now go ahead, and tell me when you have 
solved it. I’m going to time you.” 


296 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


She laid her watch on the desk, and was 
soon scowling over her Greek, while Paul- 
ine’s clever pencil waltzed through the 
mysterious equations that she loved. The 
freshmen who admired her, who were the 
privileged recipients of her sweet gracious- 
ness and bonhomie, were awed and puzzled 
to learn that Pauhne Foster was the best 
student of mathematics in the college. 
Pauhne, herself, laughed about her queer 
taste, but did not waver in her loyalty to 
it. Perhaps Constance understood better 
than any one else the sense of beauty and 
security which her friend found in her 
work. The magnitude of the conceptions 
that gleamed across her mind, the perpetual 
rhythm that beat and flashed in the the- 
orems or under her magic pencil strength- 
ened a naturally robust imagination. On 
the other hand, a sense of form, of law, of 
basic and eternal truth, however unknow- 
able that truth might be, had stimulated 
her, had given to her thought a poise and 
directness which had saved her, through 
several courses in philosophy, from the 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


297 


dismal swamp of despair. Throughout 
their study in Greek and German philoso- 
phy, which they had shared, study in which 
they, as undergraduates, could not hope to 
get beyond the borderland of doubt and 
perplexing contradiction, the two friends 
had wrangled amicably over the respective 
merits of Greek perfectness and the more 
modern philosophical infinity. And for 
Pauline, philosophical infinity blended with 
mathematical infinity into an inspiring of 
somewhat vague symbolism. They argued 
and wondered about these ideas in their 
long walks together, or they romped like 
happy children over hills and meadows, re- 
joicing in the brief respites from work and 
social responsibility. Constance Fuller, 
more reserved, more independent of the 
strained and crowded life about her, cared 
less for the hilarity of fudge and tea par- 
ties. She was, moreover, of a certain 
satiric and epigrammatic turn of mind 
which sometimes, while they laughed, 
seemed to her comrades to outweigh the 
strength and charm of her personality. 


298 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Even with her most intimate friend her 
frank spirit was delicately checked by a 
reserve which yielded only in rare moments 
of tenderness to a sweet act or word that 
Pauline treasured happily. Pauline’s im- 
pulsive, merry nature demanded comrade- 
ship of all sorts. Her popularity and 
ready sympathy, which together had won 
for her the prized but arduous office of 
president of the Barnswallows’ social club, 
including nine-tenths of the people in col- 
lege, brought her also many confficting social 
opportunities. She was famous for plotting 
sport of all kinds ; and her outside friends 
to be entertained were almost as numerous 
as those within the college. 

Among these outside acquaintances Henry 
Nettleton had long been her favorite, and 
always a ready companion. She knew 
their friends expected them to become en- 
gaged, yet she had never given the idea 
serious attention. She was so familiar 
with his love of fun that she looked forward 
with a touch of suspicion and with some 
curiosity to his carnival visit. Constance 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


299 


alternately smiled and sighed at thought of 
the red-cheeked initiate. Both girls were 
astonished to meet, instead, a stalwart man, 
with a strong, straight-featured face and 
steady gray eyes. His hair bristled a lit- 
tle, his well-grown moustache bristled, too, 
and he seated himself as if conscious of a 
clumsiness which he was in reality far from 
showing. His huge dimensions and mo- 
mentary uneasiness emphasized the conven- 
tional form and manner of the slender, 
elegant and confident Nettleton. Pauline 
thought she had never seen her friend look 
so young or so dapper. He had done 
hardly more than introduce Mr. Sturm as 
his classmate when their entertainers hur- 
ried them out into the clear night, and 
over the frozen ground toward the society 
houses nearest the lake. Their acknowl- 
edged goal offered opportunity for refer- 
ence to societies which Pauline, with a 
look askance at Mr. Stmrm, beside her, was 
quick to seize. 

“Our societies are so unlike yours, you 
know. We have fewer awful secrets, and 


300 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


only the ghost of a goat, so we are glad to 
open our houses for general hospitality. 
All the houses are to be open tonight for 
the members and their friends; there will 
be sociability and hot things.” 

“And you have no secrets? I have 
heard that women rarely have them.” 

“I know men are educated to that be- 
lief. Yes, we have a few. There is some 
business that Miss Fuller and I never talk 
about. We are not in the same society, 
you know.” 

Mr. Sturm seemed to have little to say 
about societies, but he was politely inter- 
ested. 

“She is a Zeta Alpha girl, so of course 
we are deadly rivals in theory, although 
we are such good friends — like the twin 
societies themselves.” 

“But when you desire to rush the same 
person?” 

“Hush! You must not use that word. 
We never speak of rushing — except when 
we denounce the action of a girl in another 
society.” 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


301 


“I beg your pardon. I must have stum- 
bled on one of those secrets you keep so 
well.” 

‘‘This happens to be an open one. As a 
matter of fact, Constance Fuller and I do 
not quarrel very seriously over such things. 
The time when I most keenly regretted 
her membership in another society was the 
week before my initiation.” Pauline 
looked at her companion when she spoke 
the word. “She had just been initiated 
herself, and she was the bane of my life 
with her bug-a-boo tales. She stiffened 
me with fright. I was as white as my 
gown.” 

“Was the ordeal very trying?” Mr. 
Sturm’s voice was sympathetic. 

“I thought so then. I don’t think so 
now when others go through the same 
experience. But of course we don’t be- 
have as you men do — like grammar school 
infants.” 

“We are a set of idiots.” Mr. Sturm’s 
voice vibrated with sudden energy. “I 
suppose brute force compels us to behave 


302 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


as we do. You may not know, Miss Fos- 
ter,” he continued hurriedly, “that I am 
about to be initiated into Nettleton’s fra- 
ternity. No doubt I shall behave worse 
than any one ever did before. If you — if 
you hear of my doing any atrocious deed 
that a gentleman is supposed not to do — 
perhaps you will kindly remember what I 
have said.” 

Mr. Sturm was taking great strides now, 
and he was speaking between his teeth. 
Pauhne regarded him in astonishment. 

“I am sure there will be no need of 
remembering, Mr. Sturm,” she said. “You 
are Mr. Nettleton’s friend, and I should 
think he would not be likely to require 
any dastardly deed.” 

Her companion swung back without 
reply. They were close upon the door 
of the gaily lighted little house where 
Pauline turned to wait for their compan- 
ions, and then led them in to the warmth 
of a crackling fire. A few moments later, 
after presentation to chaperone and society 
president, the four were comfortably seated. 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


303 


with bouillon and sandwiches. Henry Net- 
tleton, handsome, charming, adroit in con- 
versation, led the talk. Miss Foster buoy- 
antly challenged his lead, and Miss Fuller’s 
barbed generalities made their wits wary. 
Sturm remained stubbornly silent. They 
spoke of co-education, and of college lovers 
lightly, slightingly. Pauline expressed the 
conviction that it was impossible to manage 
college and a love affair at the same time; 
she had seen friends fail in the attempt. 
Nettleton thought a love affair, as long as 
it was not regarded tragically, added zest 
to any occupation. He threw at Pauline a 
gallant look with which she was perfectly 
familiar. An ‘‘understanding,” he said, if 
not a positive engagement, was necessary 
to your happiness while you were young 
and eager. 

“I don’t agree with you,” returned 
Pauline, “but I can’t prove you wrong till 
I have tried both ways.” 

“Sturm has opinions about these things,” 
said Nettleton. He looked laughingly at 
Sturm and lifted his eyebrows meaningly. 


304 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Come Sturm, tell us those ideas of yours. 
Miss Foster needs convincing.” 

Mr. Sturm reddened all over his big 
face. He opened his mouth but he did not 
speak. 

“If the subject is personal we will not 
ask Mr. Sturm to give us his confidence,” 
said Pauline. “Constance shall tell us her 
views. She has evolved them from the 
Greek.” 

Nettle ton lightly snapped his fingers. 

“Miss Foster,” began Sturm. He looked 
very much in earnest and exceedingly un- 
comfortable. “There is something per- 
sonal which I might say, and I understand 
that I shall have no opportunity to say it 
in private” — 

He hesitated. Pauline was too surprised 
to speak ; Constance Fuller looked amused; 
Nettleton was anxiously watching Sturm. 
“Pardon me. Miss Foster — but I must tell 
you that, that I honor you above all other 
women in the world — that I should like 
nothing better than to make you happy.” 

He felt that he was not getting on. 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 305 


Miss Foster gazed at him with reproach in 
her deep eyes. There was another faint 
sound from Nettleton’s fingers. Sturm 
dropped upon one knee. He was now 
desperately in earnest. He could not look 
into her crimsoning face, so he bent over 
the slender hand which he timidly touched 
with his great fingers. 

“Miss Foster,” he began again, “You 
are the most beautiful woman I have ever 
seen. I offer you my hand, I offer you 
myself. Will you take what I offer?” 

“Bravo!” cried Nettle ton. “Get up, 
Sturm! On my soul, you did that rather 
too well.” 

Sturm rose to his feet. He saw Miss 
Foster’s face white with anger. Within 
himself he swore a mighty oath. He 
bowed to his hostess and walked out of 
the room, past the few wondering on- 
lookers. Before Nettleton, laughingly 
stepping forward, could detain the giant, 
Pauline faced him. 

“I shall never forgive you for this! 
Don’t speak to him! I’ll do it myself.” 


306 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


She hurried across the room. “ Mr. Sturm ! ” 
she called. She saw him turn on the steps 
at the sound of her voice. “Mr. Sturm,” 
she said in the doorway, “don’t you think 
it would be more courteous to wait for an 
answer?” 

He was bewildered but grateful. “I 
don’t deserve to hear you speak to me 
again,” he said. 

“That may be true,” she said, “but your 
lady is merciful. Besides, she is revenge- 
ful. Mr. Nettleton shall be punished. 
Would you mind carrying out the joke a 
little further? Please escort me back, and 
pretend you are my fiance.” 

Light dawned on Mr. Sturm’s clearing 
brow. He looked a little grim but not dis- 
pleased as he offered his arm. Pauline was 
merry again when they returned. 

“You see I preferred giving my answer, 
at least, in private,” she said, “but I may 
as well tell you at once, since you both 
heard his question, that I have accepted 
Mr. Sturm.” 

Miss Fuller looked into her friend’s face 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


307 


and saw something there that pleased her. 

“I am glad you hadn’t the heart to re- 
fuse so true a gentleman,” she said, as she 
gave him her hand, “ Mr. Strum, I am 
happy to congratulate you.” 

Her unexpected formality and acquies- 
cence staggered Nettleton. 

‘‘Come, now, Pauline, the joke is over. 
You’re altogether too easy on our initiate. 
And all’s fair you know — in love.” 

“I suppose that is why I find it so 
easy to forgive Mr. Sturm for his public 
declaration.” 

“You’re not going to carry this pretence 
through the evening are you?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean 
by pretence. You don’t suppose I could 
willingly become engaged for only one 
evening, do you? You said an engage- 
ment was necessary to entire content. 
Mr. Sturm and I are going to test your 
theorem.” She flashed a radiant smile at 
Sturm, who began to feel more giddy and 
confused than before. “Have you my 
skates, too?” she asked him sweetly. 
“We are losing time here.” 


308 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Pauline’s good spirits mounted moment- 
arily higher. Nettleton was no longer the 
leader in conversation. She rallied him on 
his silence as they walked along the dark 
path toward the sound of laughter and 
the chime of skates. At the edge of the 
lake Nettleton, while he strapped on Miss 
Fuller’s skates, savagely determined to find 
consolation with this unexpected partner. 
He had known Pauline’s friend nearly three 
years, but had never considered the possi- 
bility of enjoying her society alone for half 
an hour. 

He found it invigorating. She was 
impatient of complimentary personalities, 
and accepted with cynical indifference the 
flattery which he was in the habit of 
doling out to the young women he knew; 
yet there was about her a piquancy, a 
quick wit, a familiarity with many phases 
of life, which gave her talk the charm of 
individuality. She was, moreover, a good 
skater. Nettleton’s appreciation of this 
fact, together with his own joy in the long, 
swift motion over perfect ice to the ctrains 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


309 


of wind instruments that floated after them 
across the lake, soon restored his normal 
complacency. And indeed the prevailing 
spirit of jollity was contagious. The very 
air was enough to intoxicate the twelve or 
fifteen hundred merry skaters undaunted 
by clear zero weather. The cold moon in 
the cold sky was put to shame by pyramids 
of flame that leaped into the still air from 
near and remote borders. The wide, dim 
spaces of the lake were sprinkled with 
Japanese lanterns borne by invisible 
skaters, and red lights blazing suddenly 
in unexpected places made larger patches 
of brilliance. 

Sturm was dazzled. He had never seen 
a Wellesley festival before, and he did not 
know how effectively a crowd of girls 
could entertain on a large scale. He be- 
lieved that he disliked the society of girls, 
yet he found himself bewildered, fascinated, 
by the laughing, happy throng, most of all 
by the charm of his companion’s ready 
talk. She told him many things, for, as 
she had laughingly said, people who were 


310 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


engaged ought to know about each other’s 
affairs. He did not guess to what extent 
her confidences were given for the sake of 
making him feel at ease. Paidine told him 
about the college life among girls poor and 
rich, clever, stupid, commonplace, refined 
and unrefined. She told him a little about 
herself; of her German grandfather buried 
alive in a German university, of her Ger- 
man mother who had died when she was a 
little girl, of her clever, versatile American 
father who had followed his wife in a few 
years; she spoke of her life in the middle 
west with an aunt, of a summer in Ger- 
many, but most lovingly of her years at 
college and, especially, of her friend, Con- 
stance Fuller. “You see she is a whole 
family rolled into one person.” 

“An enviable position,” commented 
Sturm. 

“I’m afraid poor Constance doesn’t al- 
ways think so. Now, tell me. Have you 
a friend like that?” 

“Not exactly. I entered Harvard as a 
jimior, and you know I am a foreigner, too, 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


311 


even after ten years. But I know a good 
many men well. I’m good friends with 
Nettleton. He is so much more — more 
delicate than I, that I admire him very 
much. I was never angry with him till 
tonight.” 

“Can’t you tell me more about it?” 

“No more than you know. The frater- 
nity men ordered me to do it. Nettleton 
arranged it and told me to speak when he 
signalled. I wish I had throttled him!” 

“0, it doesn’t matter. We shall get on 
very well, for a time, with a mock engage- 
ment.” 

“I should have refused to do it if I 
hadn’t been a fool! But when he told me 
about it I — I had no idea you were so 
beautiful.” 

They had stopped before a huge bonfire. 
The girl pulled off her heavy gloves to 
warm her hands. Paul Sturm had never 
seen anything so fair as the gracious face 
that gleamed between the dark fur of her 
cap and the dark fur of her high coat col- 
lar, as the firelight wrapped her Hthe form 


312 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


in its wavering brightness. They were 
silent an instant there by the fire. Pauline 
could find no mocking answer for the 
hearty admiration she heard in his voice. 
The next moment she had seated herself 
on a tiny pier and was asking him to take 
off her skates. She was sure it was more 
than time for coffee and Constance and 
Henry at the Zeta Alpha house; and she 
led him swiftly along the slippery, unfa- 
miliar path to the hospitable door. 

When they said good-night, Sturm found 
himself less chagrined than he had antici- 
pated, although he was conscious that the 
ease with which he had come through his 
first ordeal of initiation was the result of 
Miss Foster’s tact and of her retributive 
purpose. Henry Nettle ton had derived 
less satisfaction from his evening of sport; 
yet he had too much native gallantry to 
show that he was long disconcerted by the 
unexpected turn Pauline had given to his 
scheme. He had foreseen her indignation, 
he had reckoned, also, on her abihty to 
grasp the idea that it was all a joke; but 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


313 


he had been so in the habit of appropriat- 
ing her attention that the possibility of 
any other event but Sturm’s speedy and 
lasting discomfiture had not entered his 
mind. And now Sturm was almost com- 
placent, after an evening in a woman’s 
company! Nettleton’s only source of con- 
gratulation was the fact that the incident 
was closed; for, however vindictive Pauhne 
might be, Sturm would never have the 
moral courage to follow up his chance, even 
if he should have, what none of his friends 
could imagine him to have, a desire to 
leave his pipe and his philosophy and his 
bachelor’s haunts, for a girl’s company. 
Nettleton was accordingly the more sur- 
prised, when he called at Norumbega the 
following week, to find Pauline gaily enter- 
taining Sturm, apparently very much at 
home. He was greeted by both with per- 
fect friendliness; yet he somehow found 
difficulty in gaining the lead in the banter- 
ing talk that always passed pleasantly, 
often familiarly, between himself and 
Pauline. Sturm talked; for some unac- 


314 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


countable reason Sturm talked persistently, 
and he talked well. Nettleton had never 
seen him so much at ease without his pipe. 
The hom passed quickly, without awkward- 
ness in the three-cornered conversation, 
although Nettleton was somewhat disap- 
pointed to learn that Miss Fuller was not 
at home. Her presence would have given 
him better opportunity for retaliation. 
When they left together both men were 
urged to come again, and both politely re- 
sponded to the invitation. A month later, 
when the trio met a second time at Norum- 
bega, each was ignorant of the fact that 
the other had called in the meantime. 
Nettleton had not thought it necessary to 
explain to his friend that he had called one 
afternoon and had found Miss Fuller alone, 
who told him that Pauline had taken ad- 
vantage of the good sleighing. And 
Sturm had found it easier to say nothing 
of his sleigh ride with Miss Foster. 

Constance, all this time, had been regard- 
ing her friend’s diplomacy with an amuse- 
ment which gradually gave place to uneasi- 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 315 


ness as she thought she saw the diplomacy 
growing into a simple impulsive preference 
for Mr. Sturm’s companionship. She did 
not think Henry Nettleton was likely to be 
hurt beyond recovery, but she had hoped, 
a little wistfully and a little selfishly, that 
Pauhne would remain free from such en- 
tanglements for at least a year or two after 
they should leave college together. She 
found Pauline exasperatingly determined 
not to consider anything seriously. She 
had always liked Henry, she said, and she 
had always known that they couldn’t be 
really in love with each other; she thought 
he was coming to the same conclusion. As 
for Paul Sturm, why of course she liked 
him immensely. Their little joke had 
ended by making them excellent friends. 

“I suppose you are still engaged?” 

‘‘Oh, yes, nominally.” 

“That means to the extent that you call 
each other by your first names?” 

“How absurd you can be, Constance! 
I actually believe you are jealous. Of 
course we don’t! You know as well as I 


316 


WELLESLEY STOEIES 


do that Paul Sturm is too true a gentle- 
man to take advantage, even by a hint, of 
my little joke.” 

‘‘ I should think such a joke might get 
to be something of a bore.” 

“Oh, we don’t speak of it often. We 
just agreed to keep up the game till 
Memorial Day.” 

As the winter melted away Pauline with 
all her senior responsibilities, occasionally 
found time for walks and out-of-door read- 
ing with her new friend. It was true that 
their intercourse was always simple friend- 
liness. 

“You see he enjoys my mind,” she said 
to Constance, with a pretty conceit. “He 
never knew a handsome girl before who 
liked books. I made him read some Suder- 
mann and Hauptmann things, and he tries 
to convert me to all sorts of heresies. He 
even tries to talk Nietzsche to me.” 

“Oh, I have heard of such intellectual 
friendships before,” Constance would say. 
“I have experienced one or two, and I 
know they’re dangerous. And when you 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


317 


laugh about your engagement, you are 
trifling over a serious matter.” 

“Not serious, Constance. I wish you 
wouldn’t look at it so tragically. As long 
as we both regard it as a joke aimed against 
Henry, it can’t be serious for us. I’m just 
testing Henry’s theory about the possibility 
of college and an engagement at the same 
time.” 

“You are ignoring fundamental and 
sacred relations,” continued her mentor. 
“An evening’s joke was no harm, but to 
carry it on for four months with as simple 
hearted a man as Paul Sturm, is all wrong.” 

“He doesn’t care a whit more for me 
than I do for him. He lost his head for 
half a minute that first night, but since 
then he has never so much as paid me a 
compliment.” She sighed as she spoke, 
and then blushed at the sigh, and then 
laughed at the blush, and then threw her 
arms about her friend’s neck. 

“I will be good,” she said, “and you 
must keep me happy, dear.” 

To keep Pauline happy was Constance 


318 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Fuller’s chief care; and it was not now so 
easy a task as formerly. About the time 
of the spring vacation Paul Sturm’s calls, 
and his parcels of books were less fre- 
quent interruptions to the spring rehear- 
sals and receptions and committee meetings. 
Pauline indulged in moments of dreamy 
idleness which always ended in a feverish 
enthusiasm for higher mathematics. Mr. 
Nettleton’s card presented at her door with 
persistent regularity once in two weeks, 
always summoned a frown, although he 
usually had the grace to call for Miss 
Puller, too. Nettleton was continually 
making discoveries about Constance Fuller. 
She interested him. But this interest was 
subordinated to his consciousness of grow- 
ing irritation at Pauline’s manner toward 
him. She invariably met him with merry 
indifference that piqued him, as he eyed 
askance the quaint old-fashioned ring he 
had never seen her wear until this winter. 
He could not understand her willingness to 
carry out such an absurd joke with a big 
lumbering fellow like Sturm. 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


319 


‘‘Girls always like brawn,” he reminded 
himself as he savagely clenched his small 
white hand. It was impossible to discuss 
Stm-m with her; it was equally impossible 
to talk of her with Sturm. 

In all his experience Nettleton had never 
known a woman to enjoy the society of a 
man like Sturm, who was plainly a man’s 
man. Nettleton had liked him honestly; 
he admired his vigorous physique, he re- 
spected his giant’s mind, he believed in his 
big, warm heart. He had worked hard to 
get Paul into his fraternity, and he had 
relied npon Paul’s sane judgment in more 
than one scrape. The two men had been 
strongly attracted to each other. Now, 
both were disturbed by the consciousness 
of a subject which concerned them both 
nearly, and about which neither would 
speak. When Sturm plainly began to 
avoid him, Nettleton, half convinced that 
Pauhne could not deliberately encourage 
Sturm, however she might pretend to carry 
out her joke to his own annoyance, deter- 
mined to have it out with his friend. 


320 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Sturm, I’m not going to dodge this sub- 
ject any longer.” He spoke abruptly on 
entering his friend’s quarters. “You are 
avoiding me on Pauline’s account. Is it 
because you think she — likes you, or be- 
cause she doesn’t?” 

Sturm set his unlighted pipe firmly be- 
tween his teeth and struck a match. He 
did not speak till the smoke was curling 
above his head. 

“She doesn’t care for me,” he said. He 
spoke with such conviction that Nettleton 
could not doubt his statement. 

“How do you know?” 

“Because she is too — too friendly.” 

“0 lord, man! Is that all you know? 
She’s friendly with every one.” 

“Then the same thing is true of every 
one else, and she cares for no one.” 

Nettleton wriggled out of his chair and 
began pacing the floor. 

“She hasn’t been any too friendly with 
me though, this winter.” There was a 
suspicion of hope in his voice. 

“Do you think she cares for you, Hal?” 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


321 


"I wish to heaven I knew!” 

“ Ask her.” Sturm’s face was white and 
set. 

“Ask her? How can I ask her when 
she would only throw this ridiculous en- 
gagement of yours into my face 1 ” 

Henry was not so exasperated that he 
could not see the look in his friend’s eyes. 
“I beg your pardon, Stom,” he added, “but 
can’t you see what an absurd farce it 
all is?” 

“What do you want, boy?” Sturm 
spoke wearily and gently. “Tell me the 
truth. Do you want to marry Pauline 
Foster?” His voice thickened over the 
name.. The question revealed to Henry, 
Sturm’s real feeling. 

“Paul, I didn’t know you cared so much.” 

“Yes,” continued Henry, after a pause, 
I believe I do want to marry. I have 
always expected to marry her sometime, 
and this winter I suppose her indifference 
has gone to my head. I can’t give it up 
now.” 

There was no reply to this. 


322 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“ Tell you what I think, Paul. W e have 
the bad luck to like the same girl; but I 
say we can behave as friends ought to 
behave, and each take his own chance. 
What do you say?” 

“I’ll break that cursed engagement 
to-morrow.” 

“What?” 

“The engagement. She wanted to pre- 
tend till Memorial Day, she said. I can’t 
hear the wretched farce any longer. She 
doesn’t know what she’s playing with.” 

“Do you suppose she would have pre- 
tended if she had liked you, Sturm?” 

“No!” savagely. 

“Then perhaps she pretended because 
she liked me. I was such a damned fool 
to plan the thing!” 

“You were. Better go and see her, Hal. 
I’ll write to her to-night.” 

“And if she says — ” 

“I shan’t give her a chance to say 
anything.” 

“Just smash it?” 

“Yes.” 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


323 


For an instant Nettle ton caught a glimpse 
of the stronger passion of the man before 
him. 

“You’re a good fellow, Sturm,” he said, 
and put out his hand. “I’m confoundedly 
sorry I was such an ass last winter.” 

Sturm hesitated, but finally took the 
hand. 

“I’ll let you know when it’s over,” 
ended Nettleton. 

“For God’s sake stop talking!” 

Stimm turned away and his guest went 
out. 

“My dear Miss Foster:” wrote Paul 
Sturm, in a mighty passion of resentment, 
yearning, and fierce restraint. 

dear Miss Foster : — 

Although I can never desire to withdraw any- 
thing I said to you at our first meeting, I now 
believe it to be unjust to you, to your friend, and 
to myself, that I should longer take advantage of 
the privilege which you then gave me in jest. I 
therefore release you from any further pretence at 
an engagement with me. 

I trust we are now sufficiently good friends to 
need no such mockery as a pretext for the com- 


324 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


panionship which, I assure you, has been a source 
of happiness to me since the moment I first met 
you. Sincerely yours, 

Paul Stubm.” 

It was a dismal letter. It was ridiculously 
formal, and utterly incomprehensible, he 
told himself, to an impulsive, open-minded 
woman such as he believed Pauhne to be. 
“Pauline!” His own name made exquisite 
for her. His man’s heart brimmed with 
tenderness. His longing cried out to her; 
he could see the gleaming brow and chin; 
he saw the flashing lips; he heard the voice 
glide swiftly, lingeringly, over the words 
they uttered. And for all his longing he 
loved the very remoteness that she wore 
about her like a mantle. He had never 
seen her give sign of personal feeling for 
anyone except Miss Fuller. He believed 
she did not care for anyone else; not 
even for Nettle ton. He had hardly dared 
to wonder whether she might learn to care. 

The letter bewildered Pauline quite as 
much as Sturm had foreseen; it angered 
her somewhat less; it pained her infinitely 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


325 


more. He might have grown weary of her 
foolish little joke; she was growing weary 
of it herself, yet she clung to it comforta- 
bly, for she did not wish to lose his com- 
panionship. She had not seen him for 
over two weeks; and now he wrote, three 
weeks before the time she had set, and 
“released” her. The word was humili- 
ating. She had intended to release him, 
with laughing formality; and all the time 
she had stood with awe before the bright 
haze of her own thought— he might not 
be willing to be released. But he was 
willing. She burned with shame at the 
memory of the dim thought she had 
cherished. He was not only willing but 
anxious. He should see that they were 
“sufficiently good friends” to remain 
equally indifferent as to the outcome of 
the joke. She wanted Constance, yet she 
was glad to be alone during the few days 
of her friend’s absence with cousins who 
had come on from the West. For three 
days she worked with energy and with 
more than her customary brilliant daring 


326 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


at problems in higher mathematics; she 
attended committee meetings and Tree 
Day rehearsals, for she was to be Mistress 
of Ceremonies; she puzzled over desirable 
candidates for next year’s Barnswallow 
offices. At night she went wearily to bed 
and wondered why she cared. 

The following Monday afternoon when 
Constance, glad to be in her own room 
again, was comfortably reading her letters 
before the dinner gong should ring, Pauline 
came to her. She came without knocking, 
and without speaking. She came and knelt 
in a little heap on the floor, and buried her 
hot face in her friend’s lap. Constance 
noted the absence of the old ring that 
Pauline had merrily taken from a worn 
case after the carnival, and had mockingly 
called her engagement ring. 

‘‘0, Constance, let me tell you. Let 
me tell you.” 

Constance’s hand rested on the brown 
head. 

“You have had a caller,” she said. “I 
heard your voice in the reception room. 
Was it Paul?” 


INITIATED INTO LOVJf 327 

“No! It was Henry. And lie was so 
good!” 

She looked up suddenly. 

“Constance, he asked me to marry 
him!” 

The head went down again; but it soon 
resumed its natural proud poise as the 
silence lengthened. Her eyes searched 
her friend’s face. 

“I hope you didn’t find any great diffi- 
culty in answering him. Wherein does his 
goodness consist?” 

“I told him — you know what I told him; 
but — hut you don’t know what he told me. 
0, Constance, I love you. I want to teU 
you about it.” 

“Yes, dear, tell me. You refused Henry. 
What then? Was he hurt or angry?” 

“I don’t know. Both. I guess he was 
more disappointed than anything. He 
seemed pretty determined, for a while. 
And then, suddenly, he knew — But you 
must read the letter first.” 

She took from her pocket Paul’s letter, 
a crumpled letter, and placed it in her 
friend’s hand. 


328 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


The dinner gong sounded while Con- 
stance read, but neither noticed it. 

“When did you get this?” 

“O, I don’t knowi A very long while 
ago.” 

The weary tone brought tears to Con- 
stance’s eyes. She touched the finger 
where the ring had been. 

“Yes, that’s why.” PauUne tried to 
smile. “Isn’t it foolish! My engagement 
is broken, you know.” 

Constance folded her arms close about 
her friend. 

“You still have something to tell me.” 

“Yes, dear. How do you suppose Henry 
knew? He said I had too many friends. 
He said he didn’t think I could care much 
for anyone. And then he said something 
about my farcical engagement with — with 
Paul. And then I got very angry and told 
him he had no right to mention Mr. Sturm 
in such a connection. Then, then he asked 
me if I hked Paul, and I couldn’t say any- 
thing for a minute. 0, Constance, dearest, 
I’m so ashamed and so glad!” 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


329 


“Not ashamed, just pure glad, I think.” 

“Do you think so? Do you know the 
rest? Do you know what Henry told me? 
He was so good! He likes Paul.” 

“He told you why Paul wrote the letter.” 

“Yes.” 

“It was to give him a chance?” 

“Yes, partly that, and because — ‘Sturm 
is too fine a fellow, and too good a lover to 
stand such a farce.’ That’s what he said.” 

Pauline’s face was hidden again for an 
instant. 

“I wonder whether it’s true,” she 
whispered. 

“We shall know soon enough, dear.” 

A little strain in the tone made Pauline 
look into the face bending over her. 

“I have been taking comfort and giving 
pain,” she said quickly. “Constance, you 
mustn’t mind. Think how you are father 
and mother and sister and dearest friend. 
Think how I love to come to you now with 
my secret. I came straight. You know 
I like you better than anybody. I will 
always like you.” 


330 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“I know. It’s all right dear, after just a 
minute. You shall always like me. See! 
I twist my little verb to match the twist in 
yours. Shall and will mean just the same. 
Now get up. We’ve been sentimental for 
half an hour!” 

Pauline got up dutifully. 

“We’ll have a chafing-dish dinner,” said 
Constance. I left a can of chicken when 
I went away, and I brought some straw- 
berries and cream from the village. You’ll 
have to go foraging for some crackers and 
salt, and tea, and sugar, and anything else 
you see, but especially bread and butter.” 

They grew genuinely merry over their 
hot creamed chicken, and when the sus- 
picious fragrance crept out into the hall, 
they threw open the door, in willing 
though forced hospitality, and fed a dozen 
guests as fast as Constance, in short skirt 
and long gingham apron, could prepare 
the viands. 

“You are all recently fed, and you’re 
robbing us of our dinner. Eat, if you can 
enjoy it.’ 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


331 


“Thanks! We are eating — when there 
is any.” 

For a while after the confession the two 
girls were glad in their hearts, although 
their thoughts were touched with solem- 
nity. Pauline had written a brief acqrdes- 
cent response to Paul’s note. Since then 
the subject had not been approached by 
either. The day before Memorial Day 
came a note from Sturm saying that he 
would like to call. 

“Not to-morrow!” exclaimed Paxiline. 
“I can’t have him on that day. I can’t 
ever see him again, anyway. You must 
never let me see him any more.” 

“All right. I’ll remember.” 

But Memorial Day hurried by, and Mr. 
Sturm had not appeared. 

The next morning’s mail brought a hasty 
note from Nettleton. 

'■'•Bear Pauline^' it ran. “I think you ought 
to know that Sturm has been hurt. It was in 
a trolley-car accident yesterday. No broken bones, 

but he was badly stunned. He is now in the 

Street hospital, still unconscious, and the doctors 
can’t tell whether he’ll come out of it. 


332 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


Forgive me for writing, like a brute. I thought 
you might have been expecting him, for he said he 
was going to see you. I stopped him at the Square 
and asked him. I hadn’t seen him before, since I 
was last at Wellesley. The fellows are good to 
him, but of course we can’t do anything and his 
people are all in Germany. I’ll let you know when 
he’s better. 

Always faithfully yours, 

Henry Scott Nettleton.” 

Pauline handed the letter to Constance 
just before nine o’clock, while the great 
college building rumbled with voices and 
hurried steps. Pauline’s face was drawn 
with fear. 

‘•I’m going to the hospital.” 

“Wait till you hear again.” 

“No, I’m going now, at 9.56.” 

“Then I’U go with you.” 

At Norumbega they hastily tossed some 
articles into a travelhng bag. On the 
train they agreed that Constance should 
send word to her aunt in Roxbury that 
they might be with her that night. 

“But how will you gain admission to 
him? You are not a relative, and you are 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


333 


unchaperoned. It’s impossible and uncon- 
ventional.” 

‘‘I don’t care if it’s both. I shall see 
him.” She showed the old ring in its 
place. “I am his fiance,” she said. Her 
friend looked doubtful. “Constance,” she 
insisted, “it is right. It is not — im- 
maidenly now. Is it? You know it’s 
not. He is alone. No one belongs to 
him. He may be — getting worse. Per- 
haps I can — anyway I must see him. I 
must. I know he would want me.” 

The pale face fiushed divinely. There 
had been no tears. Constance was satis- 
fied, and led her to the hospital. No 
visitors were to be admitted to Mr. Sturm, 
they were told. Constance asked for the 
doctors; they were busy: for the superin- 
tendent; he would be at liberty at noon. 
She asked for Mr. Nettleton; he had been 
admitted by special arrangement and would 
he sent for. He came without surprise, 
and with a face more gravely serious than 
Pauhne had ever seen before. 

“Can I see him?” she said at once. 


334 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Nobody sees him. He is still in that 
heavy stupor.” 

“I must see him.” 

“As a relative? The rules are strict.” 

“No, not exactly. Why not as his 
fiancee ? The game may serve its purpose 
after all.” She tried to speak lightly. 

Harry Nettleton’s face clouded. 

“It is a good plan,” he said, “and it may 
work.” 

He led her away from Constance, and 
spoke a few words to an official who pro- 
vided an escort. Constance followed with 
her eyes and tried to svunmon a power by 
which she might see through doors and 
blank walls. She would have seen Pauline 
unflinchingly claim her right to look upon 
the sick man. She would have seen Nettle- 
ton stand courteously aside at the opened 
door. There was slight sign of improve- 
ment, the nm-se said. He might become 
conscious at any moment, and he might 
never become conscious at all. They could 
do nothing but wait. Pauline imperiously 
indicated her wish to be alone. “I will 
call you if he stirs,” she said. 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


336 


The door closed, and she was left alone 
with the motionless form on the little bed. 
She stepped softly forward and halted, awed. 
Then she knelt swiftly and buried her face. 
She shook with the tumult in her heart. 
His great forehead was so white; his eye- 
lids were so large and white; the big hand 
dropped helpless on the coverlet was so 
impotent! She timidly touched the hand 
with her fingers. It yielded lifelessly to 
her touch. She pressed her warm cheek 
against it. 

“Paul,” she whispered, “Paul, wake up 
and get well. I am here.” And then, 
“He won’t wake up,” she moaned; “he 
wiU die and we love each other.” 

She let her fingers rest upon his eyes, 
glide over his forehead, and wander through 
his hair. And all the while she talked 
sweetly to him. 

“Paul, listen. You must wake up and 
look upon me. You must not die. We 
are both so young. You are only twenty- 
five, dear Paul, and that’s much, much 
older than I. It is Pauline here talking 


336 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


to you. Aren’t you glad Pauline is here, 
Paul?” 

She hardly thought to end her chatter 
happily, yet he was hers now, for the mo- 
ment. She was not surprised to feel the 
eyelids quiver under her hand. She drew 
a deep breath simultaneously with his. 
Then his eyes looked into her own. 
Grave, wondering eyes both saw. The 
girl’s grew tender first.” 

‘‘Never mind, Paul, it’s all right now. 
Don’t try to say anything.” 

He attempted to speak. 

“It’s aU true,” she said. “I am here, 
and this is a hospital, and you are ill. 
You were hm't yesterday in an accident 
when you were coming to see me. So I 
came to see you instead. And you are 
almost well now, aren’t you Paul?” 

“Why do you call me Pavd?” he 
whispered. 

“I forgot. Henry does it.” 

“Did he bring you here?” 

“Yes. No, I came; but he helped me.” 

“You came as his — ?” 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


337 


“Hxish! Not as his anything. Just to 
see you.” 

“Your voice called me.” 

“Yes, Paul, but now it must let you go 
to sleep. Oh, I’m so glad. I thought, I 
thought — I will call the niu’se.” 

“No.” 

“Yes, I promised.” 

“Stay here, Pauhne.” 

Her eyes filled with tears at her name in 
his faint new voice. 

“Tell me,” he said. 

“About what?” 

“About Nettleton. He said he wanted 
to — 

“Yes, yes. But he doesn’t. He be- 
lieved me when I told him he didn’t 
want to.” 

“Did you refuse him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would you have said the same to me, 
Pauline?” 

“ Oh, if I say yes, you will swoon again 
like an impotent giant, so I suppose I shall 
have to tell a story.” 


338 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


“Pauline, I was going yesterday to ask 
you.” 

“Yes, I know, I know. That’s why I 
came when they told me you were hurt.” 

“How did you know?” 

“Henry told me, after you were hurt.” 

“Why did you come?” 

“I came — I don’t know. Because I 
couldn’t help it. But, Paul, you see it was 
easy to come. Have we not been engaged 
all winter? I came as yoiu- fiancee.” She 
drew the old ring from her finger. “And 
that ends the game,” she finished, with an 
attempt at lightness. 

He was looking at her with burning 
eyes. 

“Pauline, tell me.” 

“0, Paul!” She bent and touched his 
brow with her lips, “/c^ Hebe dick, ich 
Hebe dich” she whispered. 

His deep voice said the words with hers 
in response and unison. 

“You will be my wife?” 

His arm turned her face to his. She 
looked gravely into his eyes for a moment. 


INITIATED INTO LOVE 


339 


and then, with the old impulse of modesty 
and joy and courage, hid her face beside 
his shaggy head. 

“Mein Mann, mein Mann,” she said, “I 
want you for my husband.” 

In a moment she was soothing him 
again. She made him say over after her 
the words of his first foolish declaration — 
‘‘I honor you above all other women in 
the world.” 

“Now say ‘You are the most beautiful 
woman I have ever seen.’ Say it!” she 
demanded, and held her glorious face above 
him. He said it, hoarsely, triumphantly. 
She made him slip back to its place on her 
finger the old-fashioned ring — her German 
mother’s engagement ring to her American 
father. “And now mine to a big, blunder- 
ing German,” she told him, before she 
went softly to the door to say that the 
patient had stirred. She did not know the 
nurse had looked in and gone out again. 

“I tried not to excite him,” she ven- 
tured, “but he talked a little.” 

The nurse smiled. “Perhaps it has done 


340 


WELLESLEY STORIES 


him good,” she suggested. “ His health is 
perfect, and if he doesn’t sink back into 
the stupor he will soon be strong again.” 

Nettleton stepped forward from some- 
where and took her hand. 

“I always knew you were the finest 
woman in the world, Pauline, but I never 
knew how brave you were until today. 
And, Pauline, you haven’t done it as I 
expected you would, but you’ve proved 
my theory.” 

She smiled radiantly upon him. “Take 
me to Constance,” she said. 


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